Death Do Us Part
by D. Fowler
Summary: Sequel to "Secrets" - Abbie takes on a case of her own, despite Jack's misgivings. Will it come between them?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Thank you very much to all who have written me about "Secrets". I can't tell you how much the encouraging words mean to me! A lot of work goes into the stories I write and it's nice to know they are appreciated! Hope readers enjoy this one.**

Law & Order Story: Death Do Us Part

Chapter 1

"You exchanged _keys_?" Briscoe asked incredulously, staring at his partner from the passenger seat of the city-owned cruiser.

"That isn't what I said," Green argued without allowing his vision to stray from the traffic in front of him as they drove through a quiet suburban neighborhood. "I said she gave _me_ a key to _her_ place. We've been seeing each other for a while now and she wanted me to have it in case something happens and I need to get in, because I'm a cop and all."

Shaking his head slowly, Briscoe said, "Ed, Ed, you don't get it; that's how it starts. First it's, 'I trust you. I know you'll protect me.' Then you're lying in bed one night, all nice and relaxed, and you hear, 'You know I trust you. Do you trust me?' And given the fact that she's curled up beside you without a stitch of clothes on, what are you going to say but, 'Of course'? She says, 'So why don't you give me a key to your place, just in case?' Then you come home one night and find her in your apartment, wearing a sexy dress, with a nice dinner waiting for you. 'I wanted to surprise you. I know how hard you've been working lately,' she says. Next thing you know, you open up your closet and find every one of your possessions sandwiched into a six-inch space, and her stuff is crammed everywhere else. Trust me, she's moving in on you."

"It isn't like that with us. Sasha isn't pushy. She's very sweet."

Briscoe snorted derisively. "All women are sweet until they get the ring in your nose. One morning you wake up and she says, 'I'm late,' and you find yourself out shopping for a minivan. Take my advice: Run for cover at the first sign of domesticity. And her giving you a key is a Big Sign, Buddy."

Green sighed contentedly, recalling the previous evening. "But they're so soft, Lennie. And they smell so good. And they feel so good…"

"It's a trap, I tell you," Briscoe insisted.

"Come on, admit it. If some nice-looking woman started coming around, tossing her hair and talking sweet, you can't tell me you wouldn't follow her out the door."

"Well, yeah," Briscoe acknowledged, "but that's different. If some woman is fool enough to want to get mixed up with me, I'm game. I've got nothing to lose. You, on the other hand, are young; you've still got your whole life ahead of you."

His partner chuckled and shook his head. Easing off of the accelerator, he said, "This looks like the place."

"Looks like it," Briscoe agreed.

Green pulled over and parked at the curb behind an ominous black van with the words "New York County Coroner" stenciled in white block letters across the back. As they got out they noticed two patrol cars parked in front of the van, one stopped partly on the sidewalk.

Patches of refrozen late snow crunched under their shoes as they cut across the small yard toward the open front door of a dingy red brick house, clearly the worst kept on the upper middle class block. As soon as they climbed the three shallow steps, a draft of warmer air from inside the house confronted them.

"Oh, man!" Green exclaimed, pulling his jacket over his nose and mouth. "I hate it when they're ripe!"

Briscoe pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and covered the lower part of his face as well. "Judging by the aroma, I'd say we're looking at about four days."

"No way. I'd say it's more like six."

"Care to put your money where your mouth is? Say, twenty bucks worth?"

"Easy money," Green accepted.

They walked into a small living room and were met by a policewoman in uniform. "Detectives, everyone is in the back bedroom."

"Thanks, DeSoto," Briscoe nodded. As he and Green continued through the worn house, they noticed that the lights in every room had been turned on, revealing equally worn furniture. But after the first pungent blast, the odor had improved somewhat and they no longer felt the need to cover their faces.

The detectives stepped into a crowded room with wide-open windows that served as the master bedroom. Standing beside a bed, two plain-clothes officers were talking to another in uniform. A man they recognized as a coroner was sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully examining the figure lying on it. An assistant hovered nearby, holding a plastic evidence bag. A police photographer snapped pictures of the bed and rest of the room, while another man was painstakingly brushing a fine powder on the surface of the nightstand.

Briscoe approached the three officers. "What've we got?"

"Male, Caucasian, stabbed to death," one of the plain-clothes men answered.

Green looked at the knife protruding from the back of the victim, who was lying on top of a blood-soaked sheet. "No kidding, Bartlett."

Ignoring his sarcasm, the officer continued, "Mailman called it in."

"Did you get a statement?" Briscoe asked.

"Yeah. He was trying to get a signature on a registered letter. There were no signs of forcible entry, but when he knocked on the door it came open and he got a whiff of John Doe, here. He delivered a similar letter addressed to the same person several weeks ago and there's no change of address form on file, but this isn't the man who was here on his last visit. He couldn't identify the body."

"You let him walk around the crime scene?" Briscoe asked sharply.

"We thought he might be able to help. The house is cleaned out, no identification or personal effects found in any of the rooms. We were hoping he could tell us who the victim is," he explained, gesturing toward the bed. "The next door neighbor on the corner said this house is a furnished rental and the previous tenants moved out about a month ago. Some other people moved in soon after, but she didn't know anything about them and never did see them. She just noticed the lights on at night."

"What about the landlord?" Green asked.

Bartlett tore a sheet of paper from a small notebook and handed it to him. "This is the emergency phone number we found taped to the inside of the kitchen cabinet. We haven't been able to get an answer."

The detectives turned their attention to the coroner. "What do you think, Gus? How long has he been here?" Briscoe asked.

"Oh, three, four days at the most. The heat was left on. That's why it's a little strong in here."

Briscoe smirked as Green swore and pulled his wallet out of his hip pocket.

Slipping the crisp bill Green passed him into his own pocket, Briscoe asked, "Anything else?"

"One stab, straight into the heart. Judging by his position and the lack of defensive wounds, I'd say it happened while he was asleep," the coroner answered.

"I guess no one ever told this guy that sleeping on your stomach is bad for your back," Briscoe quipped.

"Poor guy," Green commented. "He probably didn't even see it coming."

"Probably done by some sweet-talking woman who had her own key," Briscoe offered.

Green threw him a dark look as the coroner informed them, "I'll have a report for you sometime tomorrow."

"Thanks, Gus," Briscoe offered as he and Green headed out of the room.

As they passed through the living room, DeSoto was still at her post near the door. "Have a good evening, Lennie," she said.

"You too, Barbara," Briscoe called over his shoulder as he and Green walked out of the house.

Once they were on the sidewalk, Green gave his partner a sideways glance. "She seemed kind of sweet on you, LENNIE."

Briscoe shook his head and smiled. "Married, with children."

"That wouldn't stop a lot of men," Green observed.

"Stops this one," Briscoe countered. He stood beside the car, looking up and down the street. "Why don't we see if any of the other neighbors can tell us something about John Doe? I'd sure like to have a name to put on our report in the morning."

Green checked his watch. "It's after 6:00. I was thinking more along the lines of a nice juicy steak with a big baked potato."

"You can stuff your face later. If we wait and come back tomorrow, most of these people will be working. Looks like a lot of them are home now."

Green sighed with resignation. "Let me get some business cards out of the glove box."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Morning," Briscoe said brightly as he joined Green at the coffee maker.

"Hey, Partner. How's it going?" Green asked as he picked up his steaming styrofoam cup.

"I woke up this morning, so I'm not complaining," Briscoe answered.

As they headed to their desks, Van Buren spotted them from her own and motioned them into her office. "I heard you two put in some overtime last night," she noted as they entered.

"A couple of hours," Green replied. "Just wish it had done some good."

"Bartlett filled me in on the crime scene this morning. He said you were talking with one of the neighbors when he left. I take it you didn't get anywhere."

"As usual everyone was deaf, dumb, and blind. No one remembers seeing anyone coming or going from that house in the last month. One man did think he remembered seeing an old Chevy Impala in the driveway a few times. Otherwise, we came up empty," Briscoe informed her.

"We left business cards at almost every house on the block, so maybe we'll get lucky and someone will remember something," Green added. "In the mean time, we're going to try to track down the landlord to see who was living there."

Van Buren nodded. "Somebody, somewhere has to know who this man is. Check with missing persons, too."

When the detectives reached their desks, Briscoe picked up the phone receiver. "What's the number for the landlord?"

Green pulled the slip of paper from his shirt pocket and read off the number while Briscoe dialed.

After a few seconds, Briscoe hung up. "No luck; not even an answering machine."

"I'll check the reverse directory for the number and see what comes up," Green offered.

"I guess that leaves me with the missing persons' files," Briscoe observed.

A short time later, Green reached for a notepad and pencil. "I've got an address for Landmark Management."

"Good, because I've got nothing. In the last couple of weeks, no one has reported as missing anyone fitting our guy's description," Briscoe replied as he stood up. "Let's go see what the landlord has to say."

***Green knocked on the door a second time then leaned toward it, listening intently. "I heard the television volume go down. I know someone is in there."

He straightened at the sound of the deadbolt being unlocked.

The door opened a crack, as far as the safety chain would allow. "Yes?" an elderly woman asked.

Green held his badge up to the opening for her to see. "We're police detectives, Ma'am. I'm Ed Green and this is my partner, Lennie Briscoe. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

After she had studied the identification carefully, the woman closed the door, removed the chain, and then reopened it.

"I'm Hannah Thomas. Please come in," she said, standing to the side to allow them entrance. "What can I do for you nice young men?"

Briscoe gave her a smile. "We were wondering if you knew anything about your neighbor across the hall. No one seems to be home and that address is one we were given for a company called Landmark Management."

With halting steps, the small silver-haired woman slowly made her way toward a floral covered sofa. "Come and sit down," she invited. Once the detectives were comfortably seated in chairs across from her, she continued, "Mr. Novak lives in that apartment. Landmark is the name he uses for his rental houses. But he's taking a vacation right now in Bermuda and then he's going to visit his son in Florida. He doesn't like the cold weather. My husband I have been taking care of his cat for him. He won't be back for another four weeks or so."

Green leaned toward her. "Do you know where we can find his office? We're trying to get some information on the tenants in one of his houses."

The woman shook her head. "He works out of his home since he only has a few rentals left. He hasn't had an office for over three years."

"Who collects the rent money when he's gone?" Briscoe asked.

"He told me once that he arranges for his tenants to have the rent taken right from their bank accounts and deposited into his. He said it was safer and easier that way."

Briscoe nodded. "Would anyone else know about his business dealings?"

"I don't think so. He doesn't have any family here and the man he used to do business with died several years ago."

"Do you know how to get in touch with him?" Green asked.

"No, I don't. But if he calls to check on his cat, I could tell him you want to speak with him."

Green stood up and handed her a business card. "If you or your husband hear from him, we would really appreciate it if you would give him our number or find out where he can be reached, and then give us a call."

She took the card from his hand. "I will do that."

Briscoe stood up. "Thank you for your help, Mrs. Thomas." He held his hand out and helped her to her feet.

"Thank you," she said, then followed them to the door. "You boys are welcome to come back and visit me any time you like. Next time I'll make us some tea and we'll have some cinnamon rolls."

Green smiled warmly. "We might have to take you up on that one day soon."

***Van Buren looked up from her work as the detectives came to a stop in front of her desk. "Did you find the landlord?"

"He works from his home, but he's out of state for the next few weeks. No one else knows anything about his business," Green explained.

"We stopped by the D.A.'s office to try to get a search warrant for his apartment so we could look through his files," Briscoe added. "But Abbie said no judge would allow us to invade someone's privacy without their knowledge just to help us identify a dead body. That is, unless we have good reason to suspect that the person had something to do with making that body dead."

Van Buren handed him a file folder. "While you were out, Latent sent over a report. There were almost a dozen sets of fingerprints found throughout the house, some of them from children. They found partial prints under some of the others, so it looks like a lot of them are old. Two came back with previous records. We don't have I.D.'s on any of the others, including the victim."

"Anybody check these two out?" Briscoe asked, scanning a sheet from the file.

"This is your case, remember?" Van Buren reminded him with a smile. "You can get started on them right after lunch."

***"Well we know it wasn't Hector Guzman," Briscoe noted. "He's been in Riker's for the past three months."

"You can scratch the other name as well," Green replied, clicking off his computer monitor. "Paul Lewis was shot to death in a drug deal that went bad."

"Maybe John Doe was involved with him. Or it could have been a case of mistaken identity if someone came looking for Lewis."

Green shook his head. "I don't think so. Lewis was killed four months ago - plenty of time for anyone interested to read his obituary." He watched Briscoe finish his fourth cup of coffee. "Why don't we go back over to the neighborhood and see if anyone remembers seeing anything unusual or can tell us something about the former tenants? We can pick up those last couple of houses where no one was home last night."

Briscoe nodded. "Sounds good to me. But first I need to make a pit stop."

***The detectives stood across the street from the red brick house they had visited the prior evening. Yellow police tape was stretched across the front door.

"Welcome to the neighborhood," Briscoe said sarcastically, nodding toward the house they had just visited. "One more person who didn't bother jumping on the welcome wagon."

"This is New York. No one wants to know their neighbors," Green commented.

Briscoe's focus was fixed on a spot farther down the street. "Didn't Van Buren say some of the prints in the house were from children?"

"Yes, she did."

"Maybe we've been talking to the wrong-sized people," Briscoe noted, waiting for traffic and then crossing the street with Green.

They stopped on the sidewalk in front of the house on the corner. Minutes later a school bus rolled to a stop beside them. A group of elementary school aged children disembarked, and the detectives approached them.

"Hey, wait up," Green called as the youngsters started down the sidewalk. They regarded him warily as he pulled out his badge. "We're police officers. Can we talk to you guys a minute?"

A little girl with a head full of beaded braids and flashing brown eyes stepped forward, putting her hands on her hips indignantly. "We're not all guys. Some of us are _girls_!"

Briscoe grinned as Green looked at her in surprise and said, "I'm sorry, Ma'am. I can see now that you are, with that lovely Powerpuff Girls shirt on. I don't know what I could've been thinking."

As the girl's indignation turned into a dimpled smile, he continued, "We were hoping someone could help us out with some very important police work that the grown-ups around here haven't been able to." Seeing that he had the group's full attention, he gestured toward the house several yards away. "My partner and I have been trying to find out who lived in that house. Do any of you know?"

A boy with spiked hair responded, "My mom says I'm not supposed to talk to anyone I don't know."

"That's a good rule," Green agreed. "My name is Ed and this is my partner, Lennie. We spoke with most of your parents last night. I don't think they will mind if you help us out."

The tallest boy in the group asked, "Did somebody die in there?"

Green exchanged a look with Briscoe who asked, "Where did you hear that, son?"

"My dad was talking about it this morning. He said that house has been nothing but trouble since the owner started renting it out. And he said now somebody got themselves killed there."

Briscoe nodded solemnly. "Someone did die there. And it's very important that we find out who the person was so we know why they died. We want to make sure that your neighborhood stays as safe as possible."

A small girl who was standing close to the tall boy said quietly, "My friend Amanda used to live there. She sat beside me on the bus."

"How long ago did she live there?" Green asked.

"Not very long. She was my best friend. After we got our pictures at school, she gave me one of hers to keep and I gave her one of mine. We sat beside each other when we ate our lunch, and we played together at recess every day."

"Do you know where she is now?"

The little girl shook her head. "She didn't get on the bus today, or yesterday, or the two yesterdays before that. My teacher said she goes to a different school now."

Green bent down. "Do you still have the picture she gave you?" At the girl's nod, he asked, "Could I look at it?"

She shrugged out of her backpack and began searching through it.

"What school do you go to?" Briscoe asked.

"P.S. 69," the little girl answered.

"Did any of the rest of you know anyone who lived in that house?"

"There was a boy playing basketball out front one day. He might have been Amanda's brother," the spike-haired boy offered.

"And I think they had an older sister," the tall boy added. "I never saw any grown-ups."

As a couple of the other children nodded their agreement, the small girl produced a photo and handed it to Green.

He studied it for a second. "Would it be all right if I kept this for a little while? I promise I'll return it." When the girl nodded, he asked, "Which house do you live in?"

The tall boy pointed across the street. "We live in that one."

Green smiled at the children. "You've all been really helpful. Thank you very much. We left our phone number with your parents, so if you think of anything else you want to tell us, have them call us."

As the children continued down the sidewalk, Briscoe said, "Yep. I can see you're already practicing for the minivan days ahead; had those kids in the palm of your hand."

"Very funny. At least it got us something we can use."

Briscoe nodded. "School's been out for more than an hour. We probably won't find out much over there today. Let's go back to the office and see if Gus has a report for us, or if the M.E. has had time to do an autopsy."

***"Are you kidding me?" Rodgers exclaimed into the phone. "He just came in last night. There's no way I'll get to him today. Call back tomorrow after lunch. I'll try to squeeze him in before then."

"If you happen to finish him sooner than that, give us call," Briscoe told her. "We'd like to know something about this guy as soon as possible. It isn't like the rest of your clients are going anywhere."

"Well if they do, you'll be the first to know," Rodgers assured him. "Talk to me tomorrow."

Briscoe hung up the phone. "What does Gus have to say?"

Turning to the second page of the report, Green replied, "Not much more than he did last night. Rodgers will have to pinpoint the time of death. There is something about the murder weapon in here. The knife matched a set found in a kitchen drawer. And the fingerprints found on it were small."

Briscoe grimaced. "From a child?"

"Gus doesn't think so. They were narrow, but longer than a child's. His guess is that they're from a woman."

"What did I tell you, Ed? You can't trust them!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Green said good-naturedly, rolling his eyes. "So what do you want to do now, Partner? Take this disgusting photo the coroner sent over, stand on the street corner, and ask people, 'Did you ever see this man when he was alive?'"

Briscoe checked the clock on the wall. "It's reasonably close to 5:00. I say we call it a day and start with the school in the morning."

"Sounds like a plan. You want to go get that steak we were discussing last night?"

"You aren't expected at home? Don't you at least need to call and check in with her?"

Green gave him a defiant look. "If I want to have a night out with the guys, I don't need to ask for _anyone's_ permission. I do as I please!"

As they grabbed their coats and headed for the door, Briscoe suggested, "She's working late tonight, right?"

"She won't be home for another three hours," Green answered with a sheepish grin.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"There isn't much I can tell you," the school principal informed them, studying the small photo Green had provided. "Amanda Grayson transferred to our school from the Bronx after Christmas break. She was only here for five weeks when her mother called and told us they had moved. We received her records from the previous school a short time before and hadn't even unpacked them."

"When did the mother call?" Briscoe asked.

"Right after I arrived at my office Monday morning."

"Did she say where they had moved to?"

The woman turned to a filing cabinet and pulled out a manila folder. After studying it for a moment she answered, "Not specifically, but it looks like we mailed everything over to P.S. 74 on Wednesday."

"What were the parents' names? Green asked.

"When I said we sent everything, I meant we sent everything in the file. I don't have any of that information. And when she called, the woman introduced herself as 'Mrs. Grayson'. She didn't use a first name."

"So you're saying that anyone can call up posing as a parent, tell you they've moved, and you send the child's records wherever they say?" Briscoe asked.

The woman smiled patiently. "Not exactly. We need a request from the new school and we require a signed statement from the parent or guardian. The signature on the statement has to match what we have on record. Mrs. Grayson faxed over everything Monday afternoon."

"Do you have a copy of her statement in the file?"

She handed a piece of paper across the desk. "This is what she sent."

After scanning the paper Green noted, "There's no originating phone number or anything on this. Do you have the cover sheet that came with it?"

"We don't save things like that. The statement is all we're required to keep."

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. "You wanted to see me, Mrs. Carlisle?" a younger woman asked as she entered the office.

"Yes," the principal responded. "These men are detectives from the police department. They're looking for some information about Amanda Grayson and her family. They have some questions for them." She gestured to the woman. "This is Ms. Garrett, Amanda's former teacher."

After nodding 'hello', Green explained, "We'd like to know anything you can tell us about the Graysons: first names, current or former addresses, or if they had other children."

The teacher frowned thoughtfully. "I don't know if I can be of much help. Amanda was here for such a short time, I didn't really learn much about her. On the first day she was in class, I introduced her to the other students and had her tell us a little about herself. I do know that she had an older brother and sister, but neither of them attended this school. She said her father worked at an insurance company and her mother worked in a doctor's office. Any other information would be found in her file."

"Which is in transit to P.S. 74 as we speak," the principal informed her. "We were hoping you could tell us at least what Mrs. Grayson's first name is."

"I don't remember. She always signed Amanda's weekly work folder as 'Mrs. Grayson'. I noticed because it seemed a little formal. Most of the parents sign a first and last name. She did come to pick Amanda up early one Friday afternoon a couple of weeks ago for a dental appointment. She would've had to sign in and show I.D. at the front desk in order to take the child."

"I can have the secretary pull the log and see if she wrote down a first name then," the principal offered.

"That would be helpful," Green said.

As she left the room Briscoe asked, "Did Amanda have many friends? Maybe some of the other students would know something more about her."

The teacher shrugged. "She was quiet and very shy, which is fairly normal for a seven-year old joining a class in the middle of the school year. The only child I saw her spend much time with was Samantha Reed. She and Amanda sat together in class and at lunch. You might talk with her."

Briscoe held up his hand. "About this tall, short brown hair, big blue eyes, with an older brother that goes to this school?"

"That's her," the teacher nodded.

"We've already spoken to her and the other kids that rode the bus with Amanda. That's what led us here."

"You know, now that I think about it, I might have the Grayson's home phone number in my classroom," the teacher told them. "I called once about a field trip we were taking. I never got an answer, but I may have placed the number in my personal files. I'll go check."

The principal returned with a clipboard a few moments later. Flipping through sheets, she found the desired day and ran her finger down the column of names. "Here it is. Sorry; she only wrote down 'Mrs. Grayson'."

Green handed a business card across her desk. "If you think of anything else, please give us a call."

The teacher returned and handed Briscoe a note. "This is the home phone number we had on file for the Graysons. I hope it helps. And if you're able to get a message to Amanda, tell her that Samantha really misses her. Maybe she could write a letter or come for a visit sometime."

Thanking her, Briscoe handed her a card and left her with the same instructions given the principal.

Once they were out of the building, Green dialed the given number on his cell phone. After a second he pocketed the phone. "No longer in service. I guess our next stop will be the phone company."

***"Well at least we know for sure the Graysons did live in that house," Briscoe said as they pulled from the parking lot of the phone company.

"Since we have their full names and previous address now, maybe we should drive over to the Bronx and talk to some of their former neighbors. They may be able to tell us where Mr. or Mrs. Grayson worked."

"We could do that, but I think the quickest way to track these people down is through Amanda. P.S. 74 is a lot closer than the Bronx."

Green's cell phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to Briscoe. After a brief conversation, Briscoe laid it on the seat between them. "That was Van Buren. Rodgers finished the autopsy and has a preliminary report for us."

"Since it's nearly 1:00, what do you say we stop for lunch before we go see her?" Green suggested. "I'm starving and visiting the morgue has a way of ruining my appetite."

***"You already know the cause of death," Rodgers noted. "That big butcher knife was hard to miss. From the fingerprints found on it and the angle of entry, I'd say a woman using both hands, standing beside the bed did it. She hit it just right; the knife severed the aorta. Death was instantaneous. The guy probably didn't even wake up."

"Can you narrow down the time of death?" Green asked.

"It happened Sunday night sometime between 10 PM and midnight. It was long enough after dinner for almost all of the stomach contents to be digested. His last meal was most likely at home."

Briscoe looked up from the report. "How do you know that?"

"He had corn, green beans, and meatloaf," Rodgers answered. "Not exactly a gourmet meal."

"So a guy can't go out for meatloaf? I happen to know a little diner that serves the best meatloaf you've ever put in your mouth. I go there at least once a week," Briscoe countered.

"Figures," Rodgers grinned. "But I'm sticking by my home cooking call. The meatloaf this man ate had breadcrumbs, ketchup, and onion soup mix in it. Every housewife in America has the same recipe; it's from Ann Landers."

"Mmm. Ann Landers sounds like my kind of woman. You wouldn't happen to have her phone number, would you?" Briscoe asked.

"No, and it wouldn't do you any good. You're on the wrong coast."

"Darn," Briscoe said, shaking his head. Then, eyeing Rodgers, he asked, "So how's your meatloaf?"

"I'm dating a guy who's a chef," she answered with a smile. "I don't have to cook, and we _never_ have meatloaf."

As Briscoe chuckled, Green asked, "Anything else you can tell us about the victim?"

"His hands were clean; there was no dirt or grease under the nails. You can probably rule out mechanic as a profession. He also didn't have any calluses, but he did have the beginnings of carpal tunnel syndrome. Probably worked at a keyboard. He didn't smoke and I didn't find needle marks or anything else to indicate that he was a drug user. Once we get all the blood work and toxicology reports, I'll let you know if something shows up there. In any case, I'll send over the full report when I'm done."

"Thanks, Rodgers," Briscoe said over his shoulder as they headed for the door.

"Stay away from the meatloaf, Lennie," she called. "It'll clog your arteries."

As the detectives reached the car, Green checked his watch. "School is already out for the day. I don't think there's any point in driving over to P.S. 74 now."

"Probably not," Briscoe agreed. "We'll have to make that trip on Monday. Why don't we go over to the DMV and see if we can get a picture for Mr. or Mrs. Grayson off of the microfilm they keep of driver's license photos? It might help to know what the people we're looking for look like."

"Sounds like a good way to kill the rest of the afternoon," Green commented.

"Do you still have that photo of John Doe with you?"

"You mean the disgusting one taken of him after he had been dead for three days? Yeah, why? You want to take me up on my street corner idea?"

Briscoe shook his head. "I want to be sure and take it with us when we look at photos."

"You think John Doe and Mr. Grayson might be one and the same?"

"A man killed by a woman in his own bed? Stranger things have happened," Briscoe noted.

***"I couldn't find a driver's license for a Sara Grayson with the crime scene address, or their former, anywhere in the system," Briscoe said, coming to a stop behind Green. "How are you coming with Mr. Grayson?"

Green studied the screen in front of him. "Nothing for the crime scene address. I'm searching now for their former address. Should have something in a minute." After a brief wait, he pointed. "Here it is. Mitchell Grayson: 5'11, 185 pounds, brown hair, brown eyes, 42 years old."

"Enlarge the photo," Briscoe suggested.

After doing so, Green held the picture of the victim up to the screen. "I don't know. What do you think, Lennie?"

"Two bad photos. Hard to say."

"Well I guess John Doe will have to remain John Doe through the weekend," Green decided, printing out a copy of the driver's license photo. "Let's get out of here before we're locked in."

As they walked to the car Briscoe asked, "Any big plans for the weekend?"

"Not really. Sasha has the weekend off too, so she I are just going to hang out, maybe catch a movie or something."

"Well, whatever you do, don't let her drag you into any hardware stores."

"Hardware stores?" Green asked with a confused frown.

"Hardware stores; where they make keys," Briscoe explained.

Green shook his head. "You missed your calling, Lennie. You should've been a comedian."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The principal of Public School 74 led the detectives down a hallway decorated with collages and childish self-portraits. "The children are outside at recess now, but you can speak with Amanda's teacher. If you need to see me for anything afterwards, I'll be in my office."

They entered a classroom and the man spoke to a middle-aged woman listing spelling words on the chalkboard. "Mrs. Kroft, these police detectives would like to have a word with you about Amanda Grayson."

The woman turned to face them as the principal left them alone. "Yes?"

"We understand Amanda has been in your class for the past week," Briscoe said.

"She started here on Tuesday of last week. Is there a problem?"

"Not with her," Green assured the woman. "We're trying to find some information on her parents. Amanda's records haven't arrived yet and we were wondering if you had an address or phone number for the Graysons."

They followed the woman as she walked to her desk. "Mrs. Grayson came in with Amanda last Monday afternoon and introduced her to me. She left this address and phone number." The teacher handed a sheet of paper that she had taken from a drawer to Green. "But she said it was for a friend they were staying with who would be the one picking Amanda up from school. Mrs. Grayson indicated that she was difficult to get in touch with during the day."

"Can you describe Mrs. Grayson to us?" Briscoe asked.

"She was about five-foot-six, short dark hair, maybe a hundred and twenty-five pounds. She was wearing a business suit, skirt and jacket, like she was dressed for work. She said she worked as a billing clerk for several doctors and divided her time between their offices."

Green handed the paper back to her after copying the information onto his notepad. "Did she leave any contact information for Mr. Grayson?"

"No, she didn't. She was only here for a few minutes, and we mostly talked about Amanda. Mrs. Grayson indicated that they had moved a couple of times recently and she was concerned about Amanda making friends and getting settled."

"Could we talk to Amanda?" Briscoe asked. "She might at least be able to tell us where her father works."

"I'll go get her," the teacher offered.

She returned a few moments later holding the hand of a small girl with waist-length brown hair and bangs cut above her wide dark eyes.

"Amanda, these men would like to talk to you," the teacher explained.

The girl clutched the teacher's hand and stood close to her. When Briscoe took a step toward her, she moved partly behind the teacher, looking at him fearfully.

Briscoe smiled and bent down. "It's okay, Sweetheart. We only want to ask you some questions."

Seeing that his words had done nothing to reassure her, Briscoe pulled one of the small chairs out from under a desk and sat down, so that he was at eye level with her. "You know, I had a little girl who looked a lot like you," he told her, trying unsuccessfully to keep the sadness from his voice. "My name is Lennie and I'm a policeman. My partner and I are trying to find your mom and dad. They aren't in any trouble; we just have something important to ask them. Can you tell us where your daddy works?"

The girl looked up and the teacher nodded. "It's okay to tell them, Amanda."

Looking cautiously back at Briscoe she responded, "My dad works at an insurance place."

"What's the name of the company?" Briscoe asked.

With a shrug she replied, "I don't know."

"Do you know where his office is?"

"No. But he's not there right now, anyway. My mom said my daddy had to go away for a while. I don't think he's back yet."

"Do you know where he went?"

The girl shook her head.

"Where does your mom work?"

"She works for Dr. Freedman and Dr. Jones and some other doctors."

"Do you know where?"

She shook her head again, still regarding Briscoe apprehensively.

Deciding that she had told them everything she could, Briscoe gave her a smile. "Thank you, Amanda. You were a big help." He got up and thanked the teacher as well, then he and Green started for the door. Before reaching it, Briscoe stopped and turned back to face the little girl. "Oh, one more thing: Ms. Garrett at P.S. 69 said to be sure and tell you to write a letter to Samantha. She really misses you."

He was rewarded with a shy smile from the little girl.

***"We could look up the names of the doctors Amanda mentioned and give them a call. Shouldn't be more than a couple hundred in the phone book with the names 'Freedman' and 'Jones'," Green suggested dryly.

Briscoe took another bite of his club sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. "I still say the best way to track these people down is through Amanda. Whoever comes to pick her up this afternoon has to know where to find the parents, or at least the mother. I think our John Doe is the father."

"Not that I necessarily disagree, but what makes you so sure all of the sudden?" Green asked. "That guy could've been killed after the Graysons moved out."

"Look at what we know so far: John Doe was found dead with a knife from the kitchen stuck in his back, not a weapon brought in from outside of the house. There was no forcible entry and he was in his p.j.'s, sound asleep when it happened. The phone was disconnected on Monday, the day after the murder, the same day Mrs. Grayson called Amanda's old school to say they had moved. When she enrolled her in the new school, she said they were staying with a friend. She told Amanda her dad had gone away for a while. And I'll bet you her fingerprints match the ones found on the murder weapon."

"That's not a bet I'm willing to take, Partner," Green said as he picked up a french fry. "Sounds pretty logical to me. Maybe he was cheating on her."

"Hell hath no fury," Briscoe noted. "Whatever the reason, I think we need to find her soon, as in today. If she realizes we're looking for her, she might decide to take the kids and disappear again."

***Briscoe and Green waited outside of the school, having already alerted the principal and Amanda Grayson's teacher of their intentions. When they heard the dismissal bell ring, they watched as noisy children spilled from the building. After a few minutes, they spotted Mrs. Kroft walking close to Amanda, making their way down the long line of waiting school buses and cars. The detectives followed at a discreet distance, not wanting to upset the little girl. When the teacher stopped at a blue van and Amanda began to climb inside, they approached the driver.

"Excuse me," Green said, pulling out his badge. "I'm Detective Green and this is Detective Briscoe. Would you mind telling us your name?"

"It's Sandy Hamilton."

"Ms. Hamilton, we'd like to ask you a few questions. Would you please step out of the vehicle?" Green asked.

"I don't want to block traffic," the woman replied, eyeing him warily.

"This will only take a minute," Briscoe assured her, opening her door.

She turned to look over her shoulder. "Stay here, Amanda. I'll be right back." After getting out, she followed the detectives to the sidewalk.

"We're trying to locate Sara Grayson," Green continued. "Can you tell us where to find her?"

"She's at work right now. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Do you know where Mr. Grayson works?" he asked.

"No, I don't. Would you mind telling me what this is about?"

"We need to ask Mr. or Mrs. Grayson some questions about someone we're investigating," Briscoe explained.

"I can give you the address and phone number of one of the doctors Sara works for," she suggested, opening the passenger door and taking a business card out of her purse. "This is where she will be all afternoon."

Green took the card and studied it. "May we keep this?" When the woman nodded, he said, "We know you're authorized to pick Amanda up from school, and her teacher told us the Grayson's were staying with you for a while. Is that true?"

"Sara and the children are staying with my husband and me until they can find a place of their own."

"What about Mr. Grayson?"

"I don't know where he is."

"When was the last time you saw him?" Briscoe asked.

"I only met him once, about a year ago. Sara and I became friends through work when I was a nurse in one of the doctor's offices where she handles the billing. She called me a few days ago and said she and the children needed a place to stay temporarily. I told her they could stay with us."

Green exchanged a look with Briscoe. "Exactly what day did she call you?"

"I don't remember," the woman hedged evasively. "I really need to move my van. I'm holding up other cars."

"Would you mind giving us your address and phone number, in case we have any more questions?" Green asked, pulling out his notepad.

"I guess not," she answered.

After she had given them the information, Briscoe handed her a business card. "Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton. If you need to get in touch with us for any reason, this is where we can be reached."

As she drove away, Green noted, "The address and phone number she gave us matches the one Sara Grayson gave the teacher. But I definitely got the feeling she knows more than she's saying."

"And she didn't seem too eager to share what she knows," Briscoe pointed out. "Come on. Let's see if we can get to Mrs. Grayson before Sandy Hamilton gives her a heads up."

***The detectives followed a receptionist to a brightly lit office. "Sara, there are some men here to see you. They're from the police department."

The receptionist motioned them in before leaving. Briscoe and Green stepped into the room as a woman sitting at a desk turned to face them.

"Mrs. Grayson," Briscoe said, "we'd like to ask you a few questions. I'm Detective Briscoe and this is Detective Green."

"I've been expecting you," the woman nodded. "You're here about Mitchell."

"Yes, we are," Briscoe agreed. "Your friend Sandy Hamilton must have called you."

She shook her head. "I haven't spoken to her all day. I just knew you would eventually find me."

Green glanced at Briscoe in confusion, then asked, "Do you know where we can find your husband?"

Mrs. Grayson looked puzzled. "Since you're here, I assumed you had already found him."

"Oh? Why is that?" Briscoe asked.

She looked from one to the other. "Have you or haven't you found my husband's body?"

Briscoe let out a breath and shook his head slightly. "So that was Mitchell Grayson we found in the house you used to live in. We weren't completely sure. Can you tell us what happened?"

"I thought you knew," she answered quietly. "I killed him."

The detectives exchanged surprised looks and Green stepped toward her. "You'll have to come with us, Mrs. Grayson. This is a conversation we need to continue down at the police station."

***Van Buren was waiting for them when they came in, having received a phone call from Briscoe as he and Green drove over. She remained in the observation area while they settled Mrs. Grayson into the small, dingy interrogation room.

When they came out she said, "I called the D.A.'s office. Abbie will be here as soon as she can get away. Has Mrs. Grayson changed her mind about having a lawyer present when we question her?"

"We asked her three times on the way over," Green answered. "She says she can't afford one and doesn't care if one is present or not."

"To be on the safe side I called Legal Aid. They're going to send someone over as soon as possible, but they're swamped as usual," Van Buren informed them. "In the mean time, Abbie said to be sure and get her consent in writing before we tape the conversation."

At their nods, the detectives followed her into the interrogation room.

After everyone was seated at the scuffed table, Van Buren placed a copy of the consent and a Miranda warning in front of the woman. "Unless you want to wait for a lawyer, you'll need to sign these before we talk. This one gives us your consent to video tape our conversation, and the other is a waiver stating that you have been informed of and understand your rights."

Grayson nodded absently and signed the papers, then handed them back to Van Buren.

"Now why don't you tell us what happened," Green suggested.

The woman sighed heavily and folded her hands on the table in front of her. Her voice was void of all emotion when she replied, "I stabbed my husband after he went to sleep, a week ago Sunday."

"Why?" Briscoe asked. "Did you have an argument or something?"

She looked him square in the eye. "I've admitted that I killed him. Do I really need to give you a reason?"

Van Buren's voice was kind. "The reasons behind your actions are important. Your explanation will have a lot to do with what you are charged with and what your punishment will be."

The other woman shook her head. "I did it. _Why_ I did it doesn't matter."

"Sometimes there are extenuating circumstances," Green explained. "If you tell us why, maybe there's something we can do to help you."

After considering his words, she shrugged. "I don't know what to say."

"How long were you married?" Van Buren asked.

"It would have been twenty-one years in July."

The lieutenant leaned forward. "So, after living with your husband for nearly twenty-one years, why did you feel the need to stab him to death a week ago Sunday?"

Grayson hesitated, seeming at a loss for words. After a few moments she finally answered, "I wanted out of the marriage, but we were part of a very strict religious group and my husband didn't believe in divorce. I was trapped and felt I had no other way out."

"There are less drastic ways of ending a relationship than murder," Green observed. "Why didn't you just leave him?"

"Where was I going to go that he couldn't find me? Our children and I were his family and he wouldn't have let any of us go. He never would've given up. He would've tracked me down, just like you did."

"Which brings us to our next question," Briscoe commented. "If you were so sure that we were going to find you anyway, why didn't you turn yourself in after you killed him? Why did you run?"

"I didn't run," she insisted. "I needed time to make sure that my children would be taken care of. After I saw to that, I wanted to work as long as I could before you found me to help out with expenses. My main concern is for their welfare."

"So you were thinking of your children when you killed their father?" Briscoe asked sarcastically. "How do you think that's going to affect them?"

Grayson ran her fingers through her hair nervously and shook her head. "I don't know. But my children are safe now. That's what's important."

Van Buren had been studying her carefully and asked quietly, "Were you afraid of your husband? Was he abusing you or your children?"

"No, of course not," she quickly responded. "He punished the children when needed and lately he had been a little short-tempered, but he didn't abuse them." She leaned on her elbows, speaking earnestly. "You have to understand that my husband was under a lot of pressure. His office was down-sizing; people were being laid off right and left. He never knew if he would still have a job from one week to the next. He was worried that he wouldn't be able to provide for us."

"Sounds like a decent guy. So why did you want out of the marriage?" Green asked.

Mrs. Grayson shook her head again. "That doesn't matter. All that's important is that he's dead and I'm responsible." She lowered her head and held it in her hands, repeating quietly, "That's all that matters."

"You're going to have to give us more information than that if you want our help," Van Buren noted. "We need to know what led up to your actions."

With a weary sigh Grayson said, "There's nothing more I can tell you. I don't want to answer any more questions."

"You signed a waiver of your rights," Briscoe reminded her. "You _have_ to answer our questions."

"Then maybe I do need to speak with a lawyer," she decided.

Van Buren stood up, addressing the detectives, "Could I see the two of you outside?"

She led the way out of the interrogation room, waiting until the door was closed. "Something about all of this doesn't quite track. One minute she's saying she killed him because she couldn't live with him anymore, and the next she's defending him, telling us how much stress he was under. She's confessed, but she isn't giving us everything. I think we need to find out something about Mitchell Grayson."

"You want us to investigate the victim? Whatever her reasons for killing him, we've got her dead to rights," Briscoe insisted. "She stabbed him while he was asleep. Can there be any doubt that it was murder?"

Van Buren shrugged. "Maybe not. But my instincts tell me that there's more here than meets the eye. Did her friend mention anything about this religious group the Graysons belonged to?"

Green shook his head. "She didn't tell us much of anything. She said she met Mitchell Grayson only once."

"We have more than enough to hold Mrs. Grayson, so she's not going anywhere. Find out where her husband worked, and after you take her down to booking, do some checking. Talk to the people Mitchell Grayson worked with and learn what you can about him. I want to know why this woman found murder to be the only way out of her marriage."

***Carmichael sighed with relief as she drove in her stocking feet toward the 27th precinct, wondering what had ever possessed her to put on a new pair of shoes that morning. It would have been fine if she had been sitting in a courtroom all day, but she had visited three different offices tracking down evidence for an upcoming trial, and had been to the court building for an arraignment. Not a good day to wear anything but something reliably comfortable. Her running shoes would've been a wise choice, she thought - if only they didn't look so inappropriate with a skirt.

It had been difficult to sit still through the last thirty minutes of the plea agreement meeting she had just attended. She could still hear the defense lawyer's voice droning in her head as he had tried to explain why she should go easy on his client. Even five more minutes of the sob story and she would surely have screamed. The defendant had pled guilty to robbery and arson. She really didn't see what his abusive mother had to do with his idiotic decision to burn a pawn shop after robbing it, in order to destroy his fingerprints. But an agreement had been reached and all that remained was a little paperwork to fill out before placing the case in the 'completed' bin on her desk. She hoped to finish with it early that evening so she could go home and soak her aching feet.

When she reached the parking lot, she reluctantly forced the shoes back on with a groan, then headed inside.

"Sorry it took so long to get here," Carmichael apologized upon entering Van Buren's office. "I was in the middle of negotiating a plea when you called and I had to listen to a detailed account of the troubled life of Harold Glover, self-admitted thief and arsonist. What did I miss?"

Van Buren turned her chair to retrieve the tape. "Only Mrs. Grayson's matter-of-fact confession to killing Mr. Grayson."

"Does she have a lawyer?"

"The P.D. assigned to the case couldn't make it over. She wants to take a look at the tape before her client is arraigned tomorrow morning, so I sent a copy over to her office."

"Who's handling it?"

"Brenda Radcliffe."

Carmichael nodded. "I've worked with her before."

The lieutenant got up and popped the tape into a player that was sitting on top of a small television. "I'm not quite sure what to make of the confession."

"What do you mean?"

Van Buren pushed 'play'. "I'll let you see for yourself."

Carmichael watched carefully, trying to get a feel for Sara Grayson's state of mind. If there was going to be a question of the woman's mental competency, she wanted plenty of warning.

Upon reaching the end of the tape, Van Buren stopped the player.

"It looks pretty cut and dried to me," Carmichael observed. "She confessed freely and she sounds perfectly rational. I'd say we have a strong case."

Van Buren regarded her thoughtfully. "I'm not so sure. There are a lot of questions I'd like to have answers for before we write Sara Grayson off. In my opinion, the woman is a little too resigned to her fate. She didn't even try to help herself. There has to be a good reason for her to stab to death the man who was the father of her three kids after spending twenty-plus years of her life with him."

"Over twenty years living with the same man? That alone sounds like reasonable cause as far as I'm concerned," Carmichael noted dryly.

"There are days," Van Buren agreed with a smile. "But I'd like to know more about Mitchell Grayson. I sent Briscoe and Green to talk with his coworkers. Maybe they can come up with something that will help us make some sense of it all."

"Better make it fast. Brenda is known for quick, no-nonsense pleas. She likes to avoid going to trial if at all possible. My guess is she'll be ready to sit down and talk terms within twenty-four hours of her client's arraignment, especially given Mrs. Grayson's open confession."

Van Buren nodded. "I'll let you know if they come up with anything."

***"Watch out for that car!" Green pointed. He settled back into the seat and tried unsuccessfully to relax. "I don't know why I let you talk me into allowing you to drive."

Briscoe's next quick lane change was accompanied by a blaring honk from a car whose driver suddenly found herself behind him. "You let me drive because it's raining and it's rush hour," he reminded Green. "You hate driving in heavy traffic when it rains."

"Well I dislike your driving even more! Just try to get us back to the precinct in one piece, will ya?"

"No problem," Briscoe promised. He tapped the steering wheel thoughtfully as they waited for a traffic light. "You know, women like Sara Grayson really get my goat. Here she is, married to a guy who does his best to support her and the kids, who by all accounts is a decent, hard-working family man, and she's still not satisfied. What do women want from us anyway?"

"I don't know, Partner. If I had the answer to that question I'd be a rich man."

"Well I for one will be happy to hand Van Buren the last nail for Sara Grayson's coffin. Any woman who could kill her husband in cold blood and sit there without a hint of remorse, just because she didn't want to be married anymore, deserves to rot. A guy goes to sleep in his own bed, resting up for another hard week, thinking everything is going great, and next thing you know his wife stabs him in the back - literally!"

Green shook his head at the bad joke. "What she did doesn't make much sense to me either. But look on the bright side: We identified the victim and solved the case in less than two weeks. That's good for our percentages."

"Small consolation for Mitchell Grayson," Briscoe muttered, swerving into the next lane.

"One piece, Lennie!" Green reminded him loudly over the sound of another horn.

***Van Buren sat back as the two detectives appeared at the door of her office. "I was about to give up on you and go home. What did you find out?"

As Green sank into a chair with obvious relief, Briscoe stood in front of her desk and answered, "We found out that Mitchell Grayson kept pictures of his wife and three kids on his desk and bragged about what a great family he had. The people he worked with said that other than the fact that he had a bit of a holier-than-thou attitude, the guy was a model employee. They were stunned when we broke the news to them."

"How many people did you talk to?"

Green leaned forward. "Enough. There are no two ways about it; Grayson was well-liked. He worked in the same office for eleven years and no one had anything bad to say about him. He was just a regular guy."

"A regular guy whose wife thought the only way to get away from him was to send him to the next life," Van Buren reminded him.

"So why does that have to be his problem?" Briscoe asked. "You know, there are more than a few of the fairer gender out there who are plain nuts. Looks to me like this is one of those cases where he was the innocent victim and she's the one who fell off the deep end."

With a shrug Van Buren conceded, "You may be right. But I still say that there are most likely some skeletons in Mitchell Grayson's closet that would explain his wife's behavior." She glanced at the clock behind Green. "Brenda Radcliffe at Legal Aid wants a copy of everything we have. She's handling Sara Grayson's case. You can write up your report tomorrow morning. Right now, I think you should go home so the city can stop paying your overtime. I know I'm sure ready to call it a day."

Green got up and followed Briscoe out as Van Buren retrieved her purse from the bottom drawer of her desk. As she started to leave she spotted two slips of paper on her desk. Picking them up, she headed for the door and turned off the lights.

"I almost forgot," she said, approaching the detectives' desks. "A woman named Sandy Hamilton called twice while you were out. She wouldn't tell me what she wanted, but insisted that she had to talk with one of you tonight. Either of you know who she is?"

Briscoe took the notes from her and tossed them onto his desk. "She's a friend of Sara Grayson. Probably wants to vouch for her character. It can wait. I'll call her in the morning." He picked his coat up from where he had draped it across the back of his chair and gestured toward the door. "We'll walk you out."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Radcliffe practically skidded to a stop outside the doors that led into Judge Colin Fraser's arraignment court. She had cut it pretty close, but was reasonably sure that her client hadn't been called yet. As she finger-combed her short blond hair into place, her pale blue eyes quickly scanned several small groups of people. The majority were men, so she narrowed her search down to the handful of waiting women. It took a second more to spot a somewhat familiar woman dressed in a business suit standing alone, whose slightly slept-in appearance indicated that she had most likely spent the night in a holding cell.

She approached the woman. "Sara?"

Grayson turned to look at her. "Yes?"

The attorney took a deep breath. "I'm Brenda Radcliffe, the public defender assigned to represent you. We only have a minute, so I need you to listen carefully. When we go in and the bailiff calls your name, you and I will walk up together and stand before Judge Fraser. After the charges are read, the judge will ask you for a plea. You will answer, 'not guilty'. The judge will then ask the prosecution for a bail recommendation. The A.D.A. assigned to this case will either ask for ridiculously high bail or for remand, which means you will be held at Riker's. Our goal is to get the bail down to a reasonable amount so you can go home to your kids tonight. Any questions?"

"No," Grayson answered slowly, "but I had intended to plead guilty. I didn't think I had a choice; I already told the police that I killed my husband."

"What you told the police doesn't matter. Right now, it's important that you plead 'not guilty'. Otherwise, getting released on bail will be out of the question. You will remain in custody until you are sentenced for second degree murder. We need to get those charges reduced, which means sitting down and working out a plea bargain with the D.A. Pleading guilty will restrict or eliminate our options." Putting her hand on the shoulder of the shorter woman, Radcliffe began to steer her toward the door as the bailiff appeared to call the next group of defendants into the courtroom. "I'm your lawyer and I'm here to look out for your interests. You have to trust me. Take my advice and plead 'not guilty'. It will all work out, I assure you."

Grayson entered the courtroom with her attorney as her name was read along with a list of others. She watched apprehensively as one after another defendant took their turn in front of the judge. Thankfully, the wait was relatively short as hers was the fourth name called.

She stood beside Radcliffe and listened to the charge.

"Murder in the second degree."

"How do you plead?" the judge asked without looking up.

With a quick glance and a nod from Radcliffe, she answered, "Not guilty."

"Bail?" Judge Fraser asked.

"Your Honor," Carmichael responded from their left, "Mrs. Grayson stabbed her husband to death, cleared all of their personal belongings out of their home, and fled with their children. It took the police several days just to identify the body, and several more to track Mrs. Grayson down. The People believe she poses a significant flight risk and ask that she be remanded."

"My client isn't going anywhere. The police found her at her place of employment, not in hiding. She is the sole financial provider for her three children," Radcliffe argued. "She should be released in order to be with them at this difficult time in their lives."

"Her children are presently in the care of a responsible adult, and the only reason this is a difficult time in their lives is because their mother murdered their father," Carmichael countered, glaring at Radcliffe and Grayson. Turning her attention back to the judge, she continued, "She fled once and the People feel that given the opportunity, she'll do so again."

"Your Honor…"

"I've heard enough, Ms. Radcliffe," Fraser decided, picking up his gavel. "The defendant is remanded. Next case."

Radcliffe turned to her client and spoke quickly as the waiting officer came forward to escort Grayson out. "I'm sorry, Sara. Sometimes these things don't work out the way we want. I'll gather all of the police and forensics reports and meet you out at Riker's tomorrow. We'll sit down and decide how to approach the D.A., then settle things as quickly as possible. Try not to worry," she added reassuringly.

Sara Grayson looked at her with tired eyes and nodded in resignation.

***"I was really hoping you would return my call last night," Sandy Hamilton said as she led the way into her living room.

"We were tied up with an investigation until pretty late," Green explained. "We thought we should wait and call this morning."

"Please sit down," she invited. After the detectives had done so she continued, "Sara called after she was arrested yesterday to check on the children and let me know she wouldn't be coming home. If I had known you were going to arrest her, I wouldn't have told you where to find her until after I had a chance to talk with you about her husband."

"Talk to us about what?" Briscoe asked. "Yesterday you said that you had only met him once. Are you now saying that isn't true?"

"No, I'm not," Hamilton insisted. "We did only meet the one time, but that doesn't mean I don't know anything about him."

"So what do you want to tell us?" Green asked. "You said on the phone that you had some information that pertained to the case."

"What did Sara tell you about the situation with Mitchell?" she asked.

Green shrugged. "Very little. Only that she wanted out of the marriage and her husband didn't believe in divorce."

Hamilton nodded. "That's what I thought. Sara told me she had confessed to killing him. I encouraged her to explain why she did it, that she had a good reason, but I couldn't get her to listen. She doesn't want anyone to know what kind of person her husband really was. She has some sort of twisted loyalty to him that I don't understand. But I can't stand by and do nothing. You have to know what she was living with. You have to help her."

"What do we need to know?" Green asked.

"First of all, it's important for you to know the kind of person she is." Hamilton looked at the floor for a minute before continuing. "We met five years ago. We used to eat our sack lunches together on the days she worked with me. We both talked about our husbands and she talked about her kids. She was proud of her children and always had good things to say about Mitchell. About a year and a half ago I got pregnant, but had a miscarriage in my sixth month. As a result of complications with the miscarriage, I was told I couldn't have kids and went into a deep depression. I couldn't work and finally had to quit my job. Through it all, Sara was there for me. She came to see me at least once a week. She put up with my crying spells and with my rages. Without her, I don't know what would've happened to me."

"That's all very interesting, but what does any of it have to do with our case?" Briscoe interrupted impatiently.

Hamilton continued, undeterred, "On one of her visits, when I broke down, Sara put her arm around me. When I returned the hug she groaned like she was in pain. When I asked her what was wrong she said she had fallen. In the years I had known her, she often had bruises and minor injuries. She used to joke about how accident prone she was and I never gave it a second thought. But how many times can you fall down the steps or walk into a door? That day she came to visit me, I finally realized that something wasn't right."

"You think her husband was abusing her?" Green asked.

With a nod Hamilton replied, "When I questioned her, she became defensive and practically yelled at me to mind my own business. This from a woman who I couldn't picture raising her voice under any circumstance. When I started feeling better I called their home to invite Sara and Mitchell to have dinner with my husband and me, as a way to show my gratitude for all she had done. Mitchell answered and accepted the invitation. When they got here he was very gracious and polite, but Sara was like a different person. She hardly spoke and just hovered beside him. At one point I mentioned how much all of Sara's visits had meant to me. Mitchell gave her this accusing look and said, 'You mean, you weren't working late after all?' Sara turned white as a ghost. The rest of the evening was quiet, but I couldn't get the look he had given her out of my mind. I went to see her at work the next day. She had a bruise on her cheek that she had tried to cover with make-up, and that's when I knew for sure. When I confronted her with my suspicions she denied it, but I knew Mitchell had hit her."

When she finished, Briscoe regarded her silently for a moment. She seemed earnest enough, but he wasn't convinced.

"Did Sara ever tell you that her husband had hit her?" he asked.

"No, she never admitted it."

"What did she tell you about what happened last week?"

"Only what I've already told you, that she and the children needed a place to stay. I had no idea what had happened until she called from the police station yesterday."

Green shook his head in disbelief. "You had no idea? If you were friends for five years, it seems to me that you would've noticed that something was wrong. Wasn't she upset? Didn't she seem nervous?"

"No more than usual. I just thought she had finally had enough and left him. But we hadn't really gotten a chance to talk about it. She was trying to keep up with work, get the kids settled into their new schools, and spend as much time as possible with them. I didn't see her much. There was one odd thing, though. The morning after they arrived to stay with us, she asked me to go with her to see a lawyer and sign an agreement to become the children's legal guardian if something were to happen to her and Mitchell. I thought it was because she was afraid of him, but when I asked her, she said the paper was only a formality so that she could leave my name with their schools in case of emergency."

"Do you have a copy of the agreement?" Green asked.

"Yes."

"Could we take a look at it?"

"I don't know," Hamilton answered warily. "I don't want to make things worse for Sara."

"We need all the facts if we're going to help her," Green pointed out persuasively.

Hamilton contemplated his request for a moment and then got up. "If you think it will help her, I'll let you look at it."

She returned a few moments later with the document. Handing it to Green, she said, "This is what I signed."

Briscoe stood up and walked across the room to look over Green's shoulder as he studied the form. "Have the children said anything, or acted upset in any way?"

"They've been quiet, but not upset. All three have been perfectly well-behaved since they arrived. When I told them their mother wasn't coming home yesterday, they were a little concerned. She told me not to tell them she was in jail, so I didn't. I said she had to stay at work. Alissa is fifteen, though. I don't think she bought it. I don't know what I'm going to tell them if Sara doesn't come home tonight."

"We'd like to talk with them," Green told her. "If they can confirm your suspicions of abuse, that could really help Sara."

Hamilton shook her head. "The one thing Sara made me swear was that I wouldn't allow anyone to question her children about any of this. She said that since I was their legal guardian, I had the right to say 'no'."

"You said you wanted to help her," Briscoe reminded her. "We need to be able to prove that what you say about her husband is true. If she won't tell us, and the children aren't allowed to, then it's only your word. All you have are suspicions. We need proof."

"Unless Sara tells me otherwise, I won't let you talk with the children."

"Then how are we going to know if you're telling us the truth?" Briscoe questioned. "How do we know that you aren't saying what Sara told you to? You could just be trying to help a friend out of trouble."

"If you need proof, then why don't you look into the religious group that Mitchell belonged to? I mentioned the name of it to some of my friends and one of them said that the Fellowship of the Harvest was a cult. She said that they feel women were put on this earth to serve men. It sounded pretty strange to me."

Green looked up at her sharply. "Are you sure it was Fellowship of the Harvest?"

"Positive," Hamilton answered. "I remember Sara mentioning them. We were complaining about how tough it is to stick to a budget and she made the comment that it would be easier for them if they weren't required to tithe so much of their earnings to their church. I didn't know people still did that."

Green stood up. "We'd like to hold on to this agreement you signed for the time being. If you need a copy for any reason, you can call our precinct and we'll fax it to you. And we'll do what we can to help Sara."

"Thank you. Please let me know if there's anything I can do."

Once they were outside, Briscoe turned to Green. "So, you want to tell me what the deal is with the Harvest people?"

"When I was at the 34th, I heard about a case where a woman was beaten to death by her husband. They were members of the Fellowship of the Harvest, too."

"What happened with the investigation?" Briscoe asked as they continued to the car.

"I don't know. It wasn't my case and I was transferred before it got very far. But I know someone at the 34th who can tell us."

As Green drove toward his old precinct, Briscoe said, "You know, I've been at this a long time and I've seen more than my fair share of abused wives who have taken matters into their own hands, and I don't think Sara Grayson fits the bill in any respect. In most instances, the women came in on their own and they were basket cases. They couldn't tell you enough how sorry they were for what they had done. This woman showed no regret. I think we should pay a visit to some of her other coworkers and old neighbors. Maybe she needed to get rid of her husband to make room for someone else. It wouldn't be the first time a spouse offed their other half because they had someone waiting in the wings."

"Could be," Green agreed. "But what Sandy Hamilton said has to make you wonder. I'm sure not every woman who is abused fits into the same pigeon hole. When we found her, Sara did confess right off the bat and she did say that she was expecting us. If she really had been running, I don't think she would've gone back to the same job she's held for several years. She would've put some distance between herself and the life she had before she killed her husband. Maybe it's like she said; maybe she only wanted to make sure her kids were taken care of."

"Killing your husband doesn't win you 'mother-of-the-year' in my book," Briscoe argued. "She seemed cold and calculating to me. I think Sandy Hamilton's story was concocted to save Sara Grayson's hide."

***Radcliffe chased the last bite of cheeseburger down with a swallow of root beer, then gathered her trash and deposited it on the way to the ladies' room on the second floor of the criminal courts building. After washing up, she found an empty bench near the elevator and sat down. She had a few more minutes before she was due to appear before Judge Driesser for the long-awaited sentencing of one of her clients, and took the opportunity to pull out her cell phone and make a call.

"Carmichael," the raspy voice answered.

"Abbie, this is Brenda Radcliffe. Sorry I didn't get a chance to speak with you after the arraignment, but I had to rush to meet another client."

"No problem," Carmichael said. "I assume you're calling about discussing a plea for Mrs. Grayson."

"I'm going to meet with Sara out at Riker's tomorrow to go over all the evidence. You know, you could've agreed to bail and saved us both the trip out there. It would've been a lot easier to work things out at your office."

"And if I had, I might now be preparing an arrest warrant as a result of your client trying to skip town," Carmichael reminded her pointedly. "When do you want to meet?"

"If there are no snags, we should be ready to talk by tomorrow afternoon. I have some time free around 3:30."

"That sounds fine. I'll put you down on my schedule."

Radcliffe glanced at her watch. "I'll call if anything comes up between now and then. Otherwise, I'll see you at Riker's tomorrow afternoon."

"I'll be there," Carmichael agreed.

***Green approached a man with jet black hair and crinkled brown eyes, sitting at one of more than a dozen desks occupying the 34th precinct's squad room. When the man looked up and spotted him, he broke out in a broad grin and stood up, coming toward him with outstretched hand.

"Ed Green, as I live and breathe! What on earth brings you across town? I thought we had seen the last of you two years ago."

As he shook the other man's hand warmly, Green answered, "Sorry to disappoint you, Nick, but you should've figured I'd come back to haunt you. I'm not that easy to get rid of." Turning slightly he added, "Nick Russell, this is my partner at the 27th, Lennie Briscoe."

Russell nodded toward Green as he gripped Briscoe's hand. "You must have done something unforgivable to be forced to ride shotgun with this guy. You have my sympathies."

"Oh it's not all bad," Briscoe insisted. "He does have a knack for sniffing out the best prime rib in town."

"Yeah, he always did know his beef," Russell agreed. Motioning to a couple of near-by chairs he said, "So what does bring you to our neck of the woods?"

"We're investigating a homicide," Green explained. "A woman stabbed her husband to death. It's been mentioned that they were members of the Fellowship of the Harvest. I remembered that case you took on right before my transfer where the man beat his wife to death. Weren't they part of the same group?"

With a nod, Russell opened a filing drawer and began rifling through it. "They sure were. And what a group they are." He pulled a file folder out and laid it on his desk. "I've never seen a bunch of people with more warped notions. As far as I'm concerned, they all belong in Bellevue." He opened the file and handed a paper to Green. "These people believe strongly in corporal punishment - at least the men do. And it doesn't matter if it's their children or their wives, everyone is equal in the eyes of the Harvesters. Unfortunately, despite what I knew to be the truth, I couldn't conclusively prove that the man in our case was the one responsible for killing his wife. There were indications that someone else could've been responsible, or so the D.A. said. But in the course of my investigation, I found out some pretty disturbing facts about this religious group."

"So why didn't you shut them down?" Green asked, looking up from the report in his hand.

"Ever heard of the First Amendment? As long as they hide behind freedom of religion, and as long as none of the members come forward, there's not a thing we can do about them. And if there's one thing you can say about the members of their group, it's that they're loyal. My partner and I couldn't get anyone to speak out against the others. I'm sure a lot of it was out of fear, but we never found any proof we could use to put them out of business. It was a frustrating case."

"How do you know all of the women were abused?" Briscoe asked. "Maybe it was only one isolated incident."

Russell shook his head. "It's group policy. I had a couple of run-ins with the head honcho over there. He tried to show me in the Bible where men were given permission to treat their wives in any way they saw fit, if you can believe that. This guy was a nut case, and he drew other nut cases as followers. They use physical force and humiliation to keep their families in line. Granted, they seem like regular people and their strong family values are even commendable, but don't let that fool you. These men rule their roosts with an iron fist. Smacking their wives around is all part of the program. And either the wives are too afraid or too brain-washed to do anything about it."

"Well it looks like one of the wives started a new program," Green stated. Indicating the report he added, "I'd like to make a copy for our files."

"You can keep that one," Russell offered. "I have another. I hope you can use it to nail those psychos."

"Much as I'd like to see that happen, I don't think this case is going to help do that," Green said. "Sara Grayson killed her husband while he was asleep. She's not even trying to claim self-defense." He held out his hand. "Thanks, Nick. I owe you one."

"I'll remember that," Russell agreed. "Come around sometime when you can stay a while, Ed. You too, Lennie."

"Nice to meet you, Nick," Briscoe said, shaking his hand. "If you ever get over our way, drop in and say 'hello'. We owe you lunch at least."

"Will do," Russell promised.

Once on their way back across the city, Green admitted, "I think Sandy Hamilton was right. I think Mitchell Grayson was abusing his wife."

"Then why didn't Sara tell us?" Briscoe asked. "If he was, it would give her an excuse for acting as she did. I can't imagine that she would pass up the opportunity to claim self-defense or mental distress to get herself off the hook. It doesn't make any sense. The only thing that does make sense is exactly what Sara said: She killed her husband because she didn't want to be married anymore."

"The things Nick said about the members of their religion being closed-mouthed and the women being possibly brain-washed could explain why she didn't say anything. What was it Sandy said? That Sara had a kind of twisted loyalty to Mitchell? Maybe it was all tied together."

"I'm still not convinced," Briscoe stated resolutely. "Before I'll buy it, I need to hear it from an eyewitness."

"Well, besides Sara, there are three other people we could talk to who would know for sure."

"Her kids," Briscoe supplied. "But how do we get past Hamilton? She was pretty adamant about us not speaking with them."

"The oldest daughter is fifteen. We question kids her age and younger regarding cases all the time without parental consent. Why should this time be any different? She's old enough to make up her own mind whether or not to talk to us."

"But when we're told flat out that we can't talk with a minor, that changes things," Briscoe argued. "Without a parent's or guardian's consent, we could find ourselves in hot water up to our necks. And I don't want to lose some evidence we might get from this girl on a technicality."

"If the kids had witnessed the murder or knew anything about it, I think Hamilton would've seen some signs from them. As for the lack of consent, it depends on how we approach the situation. Right now, we're not trying to get evidence to convict the mother. In fact, we're doing what we promised, trying to help Sara out. I don't see how anyone can call us on it." Green checked the clock in the dashboard. "It's almost time for high school to be letting out for the day. If we just happen to run into Alissa, and she happens to volunteer information, no one can fault us for that."

Briscoe studied him thoughtfully, then shrugged. "Let's do it."

Green grew silent for a few moments, then sighed loudly. "If the kids don't know anything, this is going to be a pretty big shock. I'm not looking forward to us being the ones to break the news about her father's death to Alissa."

"Sara was arraigned this morning. By tomorrow morning the story will be in the papers. Her kids are going to find out one way or another. Better her daughter hears it from two of New York's finest," Briscoe insisted. "And maybe she can help soften the blow for her siblings."

***As students began to fill the hallway where they were waiting, the detectives approached a pretty young girl that another student pointed out to them.

"Alissa Grayson?" Green asked.

When she turned to face them, they found themselves looking at a younger version of Sara Grayson. "Yes."

"We're police detectives. Could we have a word with you?"

Fear and apprehension immediately leapt into her deep blue eyes as she answered shakily, "I guess so."

They led the way to an empty classroom and Briscoe closed the door behind them. Before either of them could speak, she asked, "Is this about my mother? She didn't come home last night. Has she been in an accident? Please tell me what's happened to her!"

"She hasn't been injured," Green assured her. "But I'm afraid we do have some bad news." He gestured toward a desk. "Why don't you sit down?" After she had done so, he sat facing her and leaned his elbows on his knees. "Alissa, your father was killed the Sunday before last. We found his body in the house where you used to live." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Your mother has told us that she's responsible for his death."

The girl let out a breath as if the wind had been knocked from her, and looked at the floor. Briscoe and Green watched her closely. The all too familiar disbelief and confusion crossed her face as the news sank in.

After a few seconds Green continued, "We're trying to do everything we can to help your mom. That's why we're here. We want to ask you something."

"What do you want to know?" she asked in a barely audible voice.

"Your mother's friend, Sandy, told us that she thought your father had abused your mother. Is that true?"

Her expression became instantly guarded and her eyes began to dart nervously from Green to Briscoe. "Why would Sandy say something like that? She hardly knew my father."

Briscoe's voice was patient. "She knows your mother pretty well. They've been friends for a long time. She feels she has good reason for her suspicions."

She jumped up from her seat and walked a few paces away from the two, then turned back to face them. "My mother would never hurt anyone. I don't believe that she killed my father."

"She confessed on her own," Briscoe assured her. "She told us that the reason she did it was because she didn't want to be married anymore and your father didn't believe in divorce. We were hoping you could shed some light on the situation."

She slowly returned to the desk and sat down. "Is that all my mother said about it?"

"That's it," Green answered. "We know your parents were part of a strict religious group and we've heard that some of their members believe in physically punishing their wives. Anything you can tell us about that would be helpful."

"I can't tell you anything about the Fellowship," she answered quickly, clearly agitated. "What goes on there is private. People have the right to worship the way they want."

Green nodded. "We understand. But for a man to hit a woman isn't right, even if it is his wife, wouldn't you agree?"

Her agitation grew and she looked as though she might cry. "I guess."

"If that's something the Fellowship is promoting, then it's our job to try and stop them before any more women are hurt," Green reasoned. "And if that's why your mother took the action she did, it would help her if we knew that for sure. I know you want to do whatever you can for your mother. If your father was hurting her, you have to tell us."

A tear trickled down her cheek. "I can't. I can't tell anyone. If someone at the Fellowship finds out, it will be bad for all of us, especially my mother."

"Going to prison for second degree murder will be even worse for your mother," Green insisted. "And that's exactly what's going to happen unless we find out what was really going on with your parents. If your mother was being abused by your father, she would probably receive a lesser sentence." He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. "This is just between us. No one at the Fellowship will find out. But if we're going to help your mother, we need to know the truth."

Through the tears in her eyes he could see that she desperately wanted to believe him. But she shook her head and pleaded with him, "Please don't ask me to tell you anything about that. And please don't take my mother from us. What happened to my dad is my fault, not hers."

"What do you mean?" Briscoe asked.

"There's a man at our church who told my father he wanted to marry me as soon as I graduate from high school. My mother told my father I was too young to get married and that I should be allowed to choose for myself. She never said things like that to him, but she stood up to him about it a few weeks ago. She said she wasn't going to let anything happen to me or my brother and sister." She paused for a second and tears began to stream down her face. "She took us over to Sandy's on Sunday night. If I had known what she was going to do, I would've tried to stop her. She shouldn't have to go to prison for what she did. It wasn't her fault. She was only trying to protect us."

"Protect you from the man who wanted to marry you, or protect you from your father?" Briscoe asked quietly.

The girl covered her face with her hands and sobbed. Briscoe exchanged a look with his partner and shook his head slightly.

Green patted her shoulder reassuringly. "It's okay. We're going to do everything we can to help your mother. You did the right thing in telling us what you did. Thank you, Alissa."

***Even though it was late and raining again, Green had opted to drive. He wasn't anxious for a repeat performance of the previous day's trip with Briscoe behind the wheel. The stop-and-go traffic was giving him a headache, but at least he didn't fear for his life.

"You sure are quiet, Partner," he noted.

Briscoe continued staring out of the car window. "I was just sitting here wondering what crow tastes like." He turned to look at Green. "Looks like I was wrong about Sara Grayson. I guess she did have a reason for stabbing her husband. Alissa didn't have to come right out and say it. I was convinced as soon as she said her mother didn't usually stand up to her father. I'll bet he beat Sara black and blue when she did, too."

"Yeah. My guess is Sara didn't want her daughter to end up in the same situation that she was in. Sounds like Nick was right; those people are all sick."

Briscoe nodded. "Now all we have to do is make sure Sara's lawyer knows what was going on. When we get back to the station, I'll try to catch the P.D. who's been assigned to the case and pass along what we heard today. She should be happy; it isn't often that we make the defense's case for them."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"Phone call on line three, Lennie," Bartlett informed him. "It's Brenda Radcliffe from Legal Aid."

"I'm going to go fax our reports to Abbie," Green offered, gathering the forms.

Briscoe nodded as he reached for the phone. "This is Briscoe."

"Sorry I missed your call yesterday, Detective," Radcliffe said. "But I did read the report you faxed over last night. I met with Sara this morning and we talked about it. She's pretty upset that you spoke with her daughter without her permission. She didn't confirm any of the statements made by Sandy Hamilton or anything in the report from the detective at the 34th Precinct on the Fellowship of the Harvest. And she denies that her husband abused her."

"But you can still use the information with the D.A., right?" Briscoe asked. "Even if she won't admit to it, what her husband was doing to her has to have a bearing on what kind of sentence she'll be looking at."

"It doesn't work that way. Unless it comes from Sara or someone who was an eyewitness to the abuse, it's only hearsay. There's nothing I can do with the information."

"My partner is sending a copy of our reports to the D.A.'s office as we speak. They're going to be aware of what we found out."

"The suspicions of a friend and unproven allegations against a religious group the Graysons belonged to are not evidence of abuse. If Sara doesn't admit to it, the D.A. can't and won't take anything you gave them into consideration. Why should they when she's confessed and is willing to take whatever punishment comes as a result? As far as the D.A. is concerned, it's an open and shut case."

"So you're saying that even if her husband was beating her up on a regular basis, and even if there's circumstantial evidence that he was doing so, it won't help her if she doesn't say it's true?"

"That's what I'm saying," Radcliffe agreed.

"Then it's up to you to change her mind," he insisted. "You have to convince her to help herself."

"I've already done everything I can, Detective. We meet with the D.A. this afternoon to work out a plea."

"Everything you can?" Briscoe questioned with growing annoyance. "What's the big rush to send this woman to prison? There's nothing that says you can't ask for more time before meeting with the D.A.! Given a few days to see what prison life is really like, maybe Sara will change her mind. And it will give us more time to find hospital records or other, more concrete, evidence that will back up the abuse accusations."

It was Radcliffe's turn to sound annoyed. "Do you have any idea how many open cases I have on my calendar? Sara Grayson isn't the only person I represent! I don't have the time or inclination to twist her arm and force her to admit to something that she doesn't want to. If she wants to confess to second degree murder and take her chances with the D.A., who am I to argue?"

"You're her lawyer!" Briscoe reminded her angrily. "You're supposed to be looking out for her! It isn't in her best interest to take a plea without explaining all the facts. I know her husband abused her; I'd stake my badge on it!"

"Your word isn't enough! If you want to waste your time and breath trying to convince her to allow me to use spousal abuse as a mitigating factor with the D.A., be my guest! But unless you get Sara to change her mind in the next few hours, my hands are tied. Our meeting with Abbie Carmichael is at 3:30."

Briscoe slammed down the phone. Most of his days were spent trying to make sure criminals received the maximum punishment for their crimes. He was beginning to see that being on the other side of the fence and trying to win someone leniency was no less frustrating.

He was still stewing when Green returned from faxing their reports to the D.A.'s office.

"Uh-oh. You don't look so happy," Green observed.

"Why shouldn't I be happy?" Briscoe asked sarcastically. "Just because someone is about to be railroaded into a second degree murder sentence by the D.A.'s office and a P.D. who can't wait to move on to the next case? Just because the perpetrator is as much a victim as the person she killed? Just because we're responsible for tracking her down and bringing her to 'justice'? It's all in a day's work, right?"

"Hey, I'm on your side. I take it Radcliffe wasn't any help."

"She says she can't do anything unless Sara admits to the abuse herself."

Green grew thoughtful. "Why don't we talk to the daughter again? If we explain the situation to her maybe we can convince her to approach Radcliffe and tell her what she knows since she had to be a direct eyewitness. Alissa might be more open with another woman, and she may also be able to get her mother to admit what Mitchell was doing. Then Radcliffe can use her to back up the claim."

"I don't think we have the time." Briscoe checked his watch. "In exactly two hours and thirty-seven minutes, Sara and her lawyer sit down with the D.A. to work out a plea."

"Why so fast? She was only arraigned yesterday."

"Brenda Radcliffe is why it's so fast! She's trying to set a world's record for the most plea bargain notches on her belt. Sara Grayson is just another name on the docket to her." Briscoe stood up abruptly. "Let's talk to Van Buren about driving out to Riker's. Maybe we can change Sara's mind."

***"Weren't you the one who was ready to lock Sara Grayson up and throw away the key only yesterday?" Van Buren asked after Briscoe had explained their predicament.

"I'm the first to admit that I was wrong," he insisted. "Now that we know the truth, I don't want to see this woman pay with the rest of her life for something that was as much her husband's fault as her own. Granted, she shouldn't have taken matters into her own hands, but it isn't like she didn't have good reason to do so."

"We just got a call from a witness to the hit and run that happened yesterday. All of my other detectives are tied up. I was just getting ready to send you two to talk with him. Let the P.D. handle Sara Grayson's case. If she won't admit the abuse to her own lawyer, what makes you think she'll admit it to you?"

"The P.D. is more interested in a quick deal than in spending five whole minutes with her client," Briscoe argued. "I think we can get Sara to look at the effect that her being locked up for fifteen or twenty to life will have on her kids. She killed Mitchell partly to protect them and she went to a lot of trouble to make sure they were taken care of. Someone has to make her see that being with them is more important than her loyalty to a man who beat her up."

"That's not your job!" Van Buren reminded him adamantly. "You've done your part. It's in someone else's hands now. That's how the system works, Lennie: you track them down and bring them in, and the lawyers take over from there. I need you on the hit and run case."

Briscoe stared at her defiantly for a moment, then shrugged complacently. "Okay. We'll get on it right after lunch."

Van Buren watched suspiciously as Green follow his partner from her office. Sitting back in her chair, she wondered what Briscoe was up to. He had given in much too abruptly. She knew an hour was hardly enough time to drive out to Riker's Island and back, let alone have a conversation with Grayson. But she them both well enough to know that the two detectives had no intention of dropping the case so easily. She sighed and turned back to her paperwork. Sometimes she wondered why she had ever thought that becoming lieutenant was a good idea.

***As they headed out to the parking lot, Green realized that he had never seen his partner walk quite so fast before. "Why do I get the feeling that we're not on our way to have a nice leisurely lunch?" he asked.

"It won't be the first time that you've eaten a burger while driving," Briscoe acknowledged.

"And I had my heart set on Chinese today. You want to tell me where I'll be driving to?"

Briscoe glanced at the business card he had stopped by his desk to pick up. "Just get in and drive. I'll let you know when we get there."

***Carmichael laid her glasses on top of the depositions she and McCoy had been pouring over for more than an hour. Taking the phone from him, she answered, "Carmichael."

"Abbie, Brenda Radcliffe. Sorry to spring this on you with such short notice, but something has come up and I won't be able to make our 3:30 meeting."

"That's okay. I have more than enough to keep me busy here," she conceded, rubbing the back of her neck.

"I'll call you tomorrow to reschedule. Right now I'm not sure how things are going to go."

"All right. I'll be in and out for most of the day, so if I'm not here leave a message with the receptionist."

As she passed the phone back to McCoy she said, "I don't have to leave to go out to Riker's after all. Maybe we can actually get through all of this today."

"What happened to your plea agreement meeting?" he asked as he replaced the receiver.

"Brenda Radcliffe cancelled. She said she'll call to reschedule tomorrow."

McCoy shook his head in amusement. "Bargain Basement Brenda. What case are you working on with her?"

Carmichael picked up her glasses and put them back on. "I'll tell you later, when we meet with Nora. If we don't keep at these depositions we're going to be here until 8:00 tonight - again. Today's a running day. I'd like to get out of here at a decent hour."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Carmichael set her briefcase on the leather sofa across from McCoy's desk and began to put on her coat. "Brenda called and wants to meet at Riker's in an hour. I'm going to grab some lunch on the way. Arnold Hansen is supposed to stop by and review his testimony for the Armstrong case at 1:00. Serena is going to take care of it for me. I told her that if she had any questions, she should ask you."

McCoy huffed out a breath and gave her an exasperated look. "I don't have time to answer questions for your trainee! Can't you reschedule with Brenda, or have Mr. Hansen come in after you get back?"

"Serena can handle it," she assured him. "She's doing very well. I've had her work with me almost every step of the way on this case. Don't worry; she won't bother you unless she gets into trouble."

As Carmichael picked up her briefcase and headed out of his office, McCoy muttered under his breath, "That's what I'm afraid of!"

***Radcliffe was sitting with her client at the conference table in one of the small consultation rooms of Riker's Island Correctional Facility when the guard allowed Carmichael entrance. She nodded as the A.D.A. approached the table and sat down.

"Abbie."

"Brenda, Mrs. Grayson," she acknowledged. "I have another appointment this afternoon, so why don't we get started?"

"I won't be staying for this meeting," Radcliffe told her. "I'm only here to inform you that Sara has retained new counsel."

Carmichael folded her arms crossly. "When you called, you led me to believe that your client was ready to negotiate a plea. If that wasn't true, then why did you have me come out here? I have better things to do than wait around for another lawyer to show up!"

"You don't have to wait. She only stepped out to make a phone call and will return in a minute." Radcliffe focused on a point behind Carmichael. "In fact, she's here now."

The door behind Carmichael rattled as the guard opened it. She turned to look over her shoulder and her dark eyes followed the other attorney as she walked around and took a chair on the opposite side of the table.

"You're taking this case?"

Morgan nodded and produced a sheet of paper. "Here is our notice of substitution, signed, sealed, and delivered."

Radcliffe stood up. "And that's my cue to take off. Nice seeing you again, Abbie. Good luck, Calea." She turned to Grayson. "I hope things work out for you, Sara."

As she left, Carmichael continued studying Morgan, trying to predict just how the change of events was going to affect their meeting. "Brenda indicated that Mrs. Grayson was ready to talk about a plea on the second degree murder charge. Is that still the case?"

Shaking her head, Morgan replied, "New player, new game, and all bets are off. But before we discuss charges, pleas, or anything else, Sara has something to explain."

"We have a tape of the confession she made to the police. Seems pretty self-explanatory to me."

"And did you read the follow-up reports that Detectives Briscoe and Green sent to your office yesterday?"

"Yes," Carmichael admitted, "but it was my understanding that Sara refused to confirm any of the information they gathered."

"Things have changed. She doesn't deny responsibility for her husband's death, but there are pertinent facts that she failed to disclose - until now."

"Until you took over the case?" Carmichael suggested coolly.

With a humorless smile Morgan answered, "Until someone explained to her that she did, in fact, have options other than pleading guilty and being sentenced before she even had time to take a deep breath." She turned to Grayson. "Sara, please tell Ms. Carmichael about Mitchell."

Grayson nervously pushed her hair behind one ear, then twisted her fingers together. Haltingly, she explained, "When we were first married, my husband would hit me once in a while. It wasn't very often and it was only when I had done something wrong. He never really hurt me..."

Morgan put her hand on Grayson's arm and shook her head. After a moment, Grayson took a deep breath and began again.

"Throughout out marriage, Mitchell hit me. About ten years ago he joined the Fellowship of the Harvest. After that it began happening on a regular basis. He said it was his responsibility in the eyes of the Lord to teach his family right from wrong. That's what we were all taught at the Fellowship. I soon learned that almost all of the women within the group suffered the same thing. Physical punishment was a big part of their training. Mitchell disciplined my children and me often. But even though he sometimes punished them a little too harshly, the things he did to me hurt the children more. They've watched him hit me all of their lives. I guess I convinced myself that it wasn't really affecting them. But a few weeks ago, my husband and I had an argument and he beat me very badly. Afterwards, my son Alex told me that he wanted to kill his father. That's when I knew I had to act."

"Your son talked about killing your husband?" When the other woman nodded her consent, Carmichael asked, "How old is he?"

Mrs. Grayson's eyes filled with tears before she answered softly, "Twelve."

"And will your kids back up your story of the abuse?"

"Sara's children won't be participating in her defense," Morgan answered resolutely.

"Are there any other eyewitnesses?"

Grayson shook her head.

"Then all we have is your word and some questionable circumstantial evidence that your husband was abusing you," Carmichael observed. "And if what you say is true, why didn't you take the children and leave? You could've gone to a shelter and called the police."

"I left Mitchell once. He waited for me outside of my work and forced me into our car. When we got home he broke my arm and said that if I ever left again, he and the others at the Fellowship would track me down no matter where I went, and he would do worse. I had to think of my children."

As Grayson sat wiping her eyes and trying to regain her composure, Morgan put her arm around the other woman's shoulders consolingly and added, "Mitchell Grayson signed an agreement with one of the other members of the Fellowship to give that person guardianship of their children in the event of his death or extended absence. It seems that was standard procedure with all of the members to ensure that their wives would remain loyal, and the children would continue to be taught their beliefs. Sara was reluctant to say anything about her husband's abuse for fear that the agreement he signed was legally binding and she would lose her children. That's also why she had her friend Sandy Hamilton sign an agreement to temporarily become their legal guardian."

Carmichael studied Grayson for a moment before asking, "What kind of deal are you looking for?"

Morgan sat forward in her chair. "Sara acted in defense of her children and herself. We want the charges dropped."

"She killed her husband while he was asleep. She can't claim she was in imminent danger," Carmichael argued. "And she admitted on tape that her husband didn't abuse the children, only disciplined them when necessary. They weren't in immediate danger either. Dismissing the charges is out of the question."

"She lived with Mitchell Grayson's abuse for over twenty years. He terrorized the entire family; they all lived in fear. Their son had already made his feelings about his father clear to Sara. If Mitchell had attacked her again, who's to say Alex wouldn't have retaliated and been injured, or worse, himself? And Mitchell was planning to arrange a marriage between his oldest daughter and another member of the Fellowship. She would surely have been facing the same abuse as the other women who belonged to the group. When it became obvious to Sara that her children were in danger, she took the first available opportunity to act. That her husband was asleep when she did so only shows the depth of her fear of him."

Carmichael shook her head. "Without her children's corroboration, or other irrefutable proof, we only have her word. The best I can offer is man one."

"That's totally unacceptable," Morgan insisted. "If we take it to a jury, we'll have no problem proving that she acted in self-defense. We will accept nothing less than a complete dismissal of all charges."

After regarding Morgan for a moment it was clear to Carmichael that neither was going to change the other's mind. "I can't make that decision," she said, standing up. "I'll talk it over with my superiors and get back to you."

"All right. If you wouldn't mind waiting outside for a moment while I finish with my client, we can set up a time to meet," Morgan suggested.

Carmichael left the two alone and slowly started for the sign-out area. After a few minutes, she glanced back down the hallway to see the women emerge and go their separate ways, with Morgan heading toward her.

"'Ms. Carmichael?' A little formal, aren't we?" she asked when Morgan had reached her.

Morgan gave her a quick smile. "I have to keep up appearances. If my clients were to find out that I fraternize with the enemy, it could be bad for business."

"Thanks," Carmichael responded sarcastically. "Why didn't you mention that you had taken Sara Grayson as a client when we ran last night?"

"I hadn't made up my mind about accepting the case. It came up very suddenly."

As they signed out and returned their identification badges, Carmichael asked, "How did you find out about it, anyway?"

"You know how news travels around the criminal courts building; nothing is sacred."

"You don't hang out at the criminal courts building," Carmichael reminded her.

"So I don't," Morgan agreed. "Then let's say a little bird told me."

"A little bird?"

"Or a big bird, if you prefer. How I came by it doesn't really matter. What's important is that Sara Grayson is my client now." Morgan sighed. "I do hate coming in late on a case, though. So much time is wasted on damage control. Why can't people learn to exercise their right to remain silent?"

"And deprive defense attorneys of the joy they get from seeing the D.A. build a case on a confession, only to have it thrown out? Not that _you_ should get any ideas; your client turned down the right to counsel three times and confessed of her own free will. Her admission is here to stay."

"Yeah, well, the confession doesn't bother me as much as the lack of bail," Morgan grumbled. "Driving all this way is a huge waste of time. If the P.D. had bothered to have more than a 30 second conversation with Sara before arraignment, she would've been able to effectively argue for bail. I don't suppose you could be persuaded to change your mind about that?"

Carmichael shook her head as they reached the parking lot. "Your client is right where she needs to be." She added brightly, "Maybe you could take the bus on your next trip out here! It will give you a chance to get caught up on some reading."

Morgan rolled her eyes. "You're just chock full of helpful hints today, aren't you? Since I get carsick at the drop of a hat, I can only imagine what my stomach would do on a bus. Why don't you save us both some gas money and talk Jack into dropping the charges against Sara? Or is it you who needs to be talked into it?"

"I don't think you have a snowball's chance of talking either of us into that. Your client freely admitted her guilt to begin with, and only now changed her story about the reasons for her actions. I've given you my best offer. Don't expect to hear anything different after I discuss it with Jack."

"Come on, Abbie. You know that there's no way you can win if we go to trial," Morgan insisted upon reaching her car.

"Is there any chance of your client changing her mind about her children testifying on her behalf?"

"No, and even if she wanted to allow them, I would do everything within my power to prevent it. You know how I feel about that. Her kids have been through enough without subjecting them to an inside view of the criminal justice system. The last thing _any_ child should be expected to do is testify against a parent, dead or otherwise."

"In that case, it's only your client's word, which is now different from her initial statement to the police. Our tape of her confession will be very difficult to explain away to a jury. I would think you'd want to avoid a trial."

"Me? Avoid a trial?" Morgan asked with a smile. "I spent the majority of my career in front of the bench. In fact, it's where I feel I do my best work. I'm certainly not interested in a quick disposition with an ill-advised plea bargain, just to be able to say I've closed another case. You're not dealing with Brenda Radcliffe anymore, Counselor. What is it that they call her? Bargain Basement Brenda?" Her smile faded and her eyes grew serious. "Now you're dealing with someone who's willing to do whatever is necessary to make sure that Sara Grayson gets justice. She's been punished for the last twenty years. That's more than enough. And after hearing her story, in her own words, there isn't a jury in the world that will vote to convict."

Carmichael sighed. "I'll give you a call after I talk to Jack and Nora. Are we meeting at the regular time this evening?"

"I should be able to make it," Morgan agreed. "Let me know if you get tied up."

"You do the same," Carmichael responded, continuing across the parking lot to her own car.

***After having received a request for his presence, McCoy walked through the open door of Lewin's office to find Carmichael seated across from his boss. "What's up?"

Lewin waved him to the sofa and continued studying the file spread on her desk. "Abbie has been telling me about her meeting with Sara Grayson and her attorney."

"What did Brenda agree to?" McCoy asked Carmichael as he sat down.

"Mrs. Grayson has new counsel," Carmichael answered. "Calea is representing her."

McCoy's eyebrows shot up. "How did she get the case? And why? I thought Brenda indicated that her client was ready to talk about a deal."

"She did. But when I got there, Calea took over. And she wasn't willing to talk deal." Carmichael nodded to Lewin. "I was explaining to Nora that there's a chance Briscoe and Green might be right about Sara being abused." She quickly related the events of the meeting, adding, "Calea wants the charges dropped on the grounds that Sara was acting in self-defense."

McCoy shook his head in amusement. "Whether she was being abused or not doesn't change the fact that she stabbed her husband to death while he was sleeping! What was she in fear of at that moment? Excessive snoring?"

"Calea is arguing that Sara was so terrified of her husband, that she had to wait until he was asleep before the opportunity to defend herself and her children presented itself."

McCoy swore under his breath. "That argument could work. Did you make an offer?"

"Man one."

He shrugged. "Offer man two. We could probably let her off with a couple of years and probation."

"For a murder?" Carmichael asked incredulously. "We have Grayson's taped confession! That will go a long way with a jury!"

"You want to take this case to trial? With the evidence that our own detectives uncovered to support the abuse claim, the defense's case is already half made. If the cops who brought her in have reasonable doubt, how difficult do you think it's going to be for a jury to buy her story?" McCoy argued.

"The evidence of abuse is circumstantial at best. Without any eyewitnesses she can't prove it ever happened. That she said one thing in her confession and something else now doesn't exactly lend her credibility," Carmichael countered. "She could've coached Sandy Hamilton on what to say to the cops, and used what she knew about the reputation of the Fellowship of the Harvest members to fabricate a defense."

Before McCoy could respond, Lewin held up a piece of paper from the file. "The M.E. says that Mitchell Grayson died instantly with a single stab wound straight through the heart. What are the odds of that happening on the first try?" When Carmichael looked at her blankly, she added, "Didn't you say that Mrs. Grayson worked in several doctors' offices? Maybe she did some research and knew exactly where to aim."

Carmichael nodded. "I could see if she asked anyone she worked with about that. If she did, it will show premeditation. Also, Sandy Hamilton signed the guardianship papers on the Monday after Sara killed her husband, and it wasn't a fill-in-the-blank agreement. It was very specific. How many lawyers draw up papers like that while you wait? Those kinds of documents usually take several days for an attorney to draft. Maybe she had them in the works before she committed the murder. That could also show that she had made plans before she actually acted."

"The two of you can't possibly think that taking this case to trial is a good idea," McCoy stated. "All the defense needs is one hospital report to prove that Mrs. Grayson was abused, and then everything else can be explained."

"I'm not saying that more research isn't needed before we make a decision," Lewin agreed. "But I'm not sure that what this woman did only warrants a man two charge. And if the defense refuses to accept anything other than dropping the charges, I don't know that we'll have much of a choice. I think we can all agree that with what we know so far, letting Mrs. Grayson walk is not an option. Why don't we let Abbie do a little digging and see what she comes up with? It may be easier to make the case against Grayson than we think."

McCoy stood up. "Fine. But we've worked with this attorney before and believe me, by the time Abbie and I finish with the Armstrong trial, Calea will have come up with all the evidence she needs to win her client an acquittal."

Lewin exchanged a look with Carmichael and said, "Actually, we've been discussing changing Abbie's case load up a bit." Meeting McCoy's questioning look, she added, "She's expressed an interest in trying the Grayson case on her own, if we do indeed decide to go to trial. She seems to know the other attorney well and feels that she can handle the case successfully. And if she's free, that will also mean we can request an earlier trial date. I'm inclined to think that it's a good idea."

"And who am I supposed to find to fill the second chair for the Armstrong trial at this late date?" McCoy demanded. "Jury selection starts next week!"

"Serena Southerlyn can take over for me," Carmichael suggested. "She's worked with me on it so much, she almost knows more about the case than I do."

"She's only been in this office for a year!" McCoy reminded her with growing annoyance. "She doesn't have enough experience to be of any real help to me in the courtroom! I need someone I can count on for my second chair!"

"Everyone has to start somewhere, Jack. She's never going to get trial experience unless someone is willing to give her a chance." Carmichael gave him her sweetest smile. "And who better to teach her than you? She may as well learn from the best."

"Now how can you argue with that?" Lewin asked, unsuccessfully trying to suppress a smile of her own at Carmichael's blatant attempt at flattery. Noting the skepticism on McCoy's face, she continued, "This entire discussion may be moot, anyway. If at the end of our investigation it looks like Sara Grayson did act in self-defense, we may have no choice but to drop the charges. Abbie can take tomorrow and the first couple of days next week to see what she can come up with. If at the end of that time it looks like we have a case, _then_ we'll decide who handles what."

McCoy was the first to head for the door, with Carmichael close behind. She knew he was unhappy and felt that his annoyance with her was unjustified. She had handled the Grayson case from the start and had every right to pursue it as she saw fit. She knew she should've spoken to him before approaching Lewin about trying the case herself, but his attitude had put her in defensive mode and she was not about to back down.

As if he were reading her mind, McCoy insisted, "It's a waste of time. You know Calea's history. If you go to trial, she'll win."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence! And would you mind explaining to me what her lawyer has to do with whether Sara Grayson is guilty or innocent?"

"Who the lawyer is _doesn't_ have anything to do with a defendant's guilt or innocence!" McCoy agreed, striding into his office. "But who the lawyer is _does_ have a bearing on the case! We take that into consideration all the time. With some defense attorneys, we know that we'll have to work harder to win than with others. And some are a lot better judges of their chances in front of a jury. Why do you think Calea took this case? You have a very competent lawyer who also happens to have a great deal of personal experience with what the defendant had to face every day of her married life. She knows that between her and her client, she'll be able to wrap the jury around her little finger. And there won't be a damn thing you can do to stop it!"

Carmichael folded her arms indignantly. "Then what do you suggest I do? Pat Sara Grayson on the back and let her walk?"

McCoy regarded her for a moment and then sighed. "No. You should do exactly what you've planned. Poke around, see what you can find out."

His sudden change of attitude left Carmichael only slightly less defensive. "And if I find out that Sara Grayson planned her husband's death, then will you agree that I should take the case to trial?"

"If you find that kind of evidence, you will take it to Calea and try to work out a plea. Even if Grayson didn't act in self-defense, you could still lose a trial." Noting the look on her face, he added more kindly, "And it has nothing to do with your courtroom skills. Some cases are simply not winnable. And in my opinion, this is one of those cases."

"Would you still say that if some other defense attorney was handling the case?" Carmichael asked pointedly.

He sat down at his desk and looked up into her intense eyes. "Some other attorney _isn't_ handling the case, Abbie. Knowing your opponent has its advantages. Use your advantage to avoid making a mistake."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The slightly paunchy man behind the desk didn't bother to stand as Carmichael entered his office.

"Mr. Holt, I'm Abbie Carmichael from the district attorney's office."

As she held out her hand, he hesitated just long enough to make his displeasure at her visit obvious before reaching across his desk to shake it. "Ms. Carmichael, what can I do for you?"

"I'm investigating a woman who was a client of yours at one time." She handed him the guardianship agreement signed by Grayson and Hamilton. "I believe you drew up this contract for Sara Grayson."

As Carmichael sat in a chair across from him, Holt studied the papers briefly and nodded. "I did."

"I need to know exactly when Mrs. Grayson approached you on this matter."

"I'm not at liberty to discuss that. I'm sure I don't need to explain attorney/client privilege to you," he said curtly, tossing the papers across his desk toward her.

"I'm not asking you to reveal the details of your discussion with her. The information that I'm asking for isn't confidential," she replied with a slight smile as she retrieved the document.

"Your definition of 'confidential' is obviously different from mine," Holt answered. "I'm under no obligation to answer any questions about my dealings with a client."

"Mrs. Grayson has confessed to killing her husband. My questions pertain to a murder investigation."

"I'm well aware of Mrs. Grayson's situation, but unless she waives privilege, I can't help you."

Carmichael leaned forward. "I don't have time for this, Mr. Holt. If you refuse to cooperate, I will obtain a subpoena and have court officers search through your files until they find the information I'm asking for."

"I doubt that you'll find the answers to your questions in my files. I'm not very good at keeping notes," he quipped.

She stood up and started for the door. "And my officers aren't very good at re-filing. By the time they're finished going through every piece of paper in your office, it will take you six months to sort things out. And who knows what they'll find in the process? I'll be back within the hour with a subpoena."

"Now why do you want to bother with me?" Holt asked cajolingly. "I'm only trying to do my job."

Returning to stand in front of his desk, Carmichael explained icily, "Your job at this moment is to answer the question I have asked of you. Do I need to repeat it?"

Holt shifted in his chair and responded, "Sara Grayson came to me to draw up the guardianship agreement two weeks before the death of her husband."

"And when did she pick it up?"

"The Monday after he died."

"Thank you, Mr. Holt. You've been a _tremendous_ help."

***"I'll be glad when daylight saving time starts," Morgan observed as she stashed a water bottle on a tree branch. "It will be nice to run before it gets dark."

"I'm looking forward to that myself," Carmichael agreed, placing her water bottle beside the other. "I'll also be glad when we get some sunshine to dry things up a bit. I'm getting tired of cleaning mud off of my shoes every evening." After doing a couple of quick stretches she asked, "Are you ready?"

"I am," Morgan answered.

A little more than forty minutes later, they slowed their running pace to a stop under the same tree. When they had retrieved their water, they began walking around the parallel paths worn into the still-dormant grass of the small park.

Checking her watch, Carmichael noted, "We averaged about eight-minute miles tonight. That's not too bad after a long work week."

"No, I guess it isn't," Morgan agreed. "Speaking of work, I thought you were going to call me about the charges against Sara Grayson. I was sure you would have an answer for us by today."

"I tried to reach you earlier this afternoon, but you were with a client." She took a long drink of water. "I paid a visit to a Mr. Holt today. He's the attorney who drew up the guardianship agreement for your client."

"Yes, I know who he is. I called him myself yesterday. I wanted to see if there was anything Sara had told him that I should be concerned about."

"And?" Carmichael prompted.

Morgan gave her a smile. "And, there wasn't."

"It doesn't worry you that your client started making plans two weeks before she killed her husband? That sounds a lot like premeditation to me."

"Having the agreement drawn up doesn't prove she was planning to kill him. It only helps show how desperate and fearful she had become." Morgan glanced at Carmichael. "Since you're doing some snooping, I take it you don't have an official decision."

"Not yet. We have some questions about your client's story. I should have an answer for you by Wednesday." She stopped and turned to Morgan. "Want to split a pizza?"

"Sure. We can pick one up on the way to my place. I'll even let you borrow my shower."

As they started for the parking lot, Carmichael suggested, "How about a Canadian bacon and sausage with pineapple?"

"How about a vegetarian?"

Carmichael wrinkled her nose. "I need something more substantial than bird food."

"You'd better start getting used to it," Morgan advised. "All of that fat and calories are going to catch up with you. Once you hit 40, you have to work twice as hard to get half the results."

"I'll worry about it when I'm 40."

"Well, given that 40 has come and gone for me, I have to worry about it now," Morgan admitted.

Carmichael smiled. "So how about half Canadian bacon, half vegetarian?"


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

With a quick glance at her watch, Carmichael realized that she was already thirty minutes late for the biweekly briefing. She ran the last few steps to the elevator and squeezed in as the door was closing.

When she emerged she walked quickly to the receptionist's desk, barely pausing long enough to grab the handful of message forms from her box.

"Jack was looking for you a few minutes ago," the receptionist informed her as she continued down the hallway.

"I'm going, I'm going!" Carmichael replied over her shoulder.

She found McCoy sprawled on the sofa of Lewin's office, chatting amiably with the D.A.

"Sorry I'm late," she apologized, shrugging out of her coat. "I got held up in traffic."

"That's all right," Lewin said pleasantly. "Jack has brought me up to speed on almost everything. How is the Grayson case coming?"

Carmichael sat at the far end of the sofa, took a deep breath, then let it out slowly before answering, "It's coming along pretty well. I've spent the last two days making phone calls and running from one doctor's office to another, talking with Sara's coworkers. According to everyone I've spoken with, she never mentioned anything about her husband abusing her. Since she sort of floated from one office to another, no one ever had any suspicions, either. They all said she was rather quiet and kept to herself. But I did some browsing through two of the doctors' libraries. There was no shortage of medical reference books for Sara to get ideas from. I saw a book on suicide, assisted and unassisted, that gave pretty detailed accounts of the different ways people had chosen to check out, and several on forensics that described victims' wounds and causes of death. Even though no one could say that they saw her reading any of the books, she could easily have found out how to kill someone efficiently."

"What about hospital records?" McCoy asked. "She claimed her husband beat her up a few weeks ago. Did she seek medical attention?"

"The whole family was covered under Mitchell Grayson's medical plan and I've spoken with someone at his insurance company. They couldn't tell me what I wanted to know over the phone, but they're going to pull all of the claims on Sara and her children and send them over. I should know something on that tomorrow."

"Do you know if Sara has any relatives she might have confided in?" Lewin asked. "It's possible that she would tell a family member what she wouldn't tell anyone else."

Carmichael nodded. "She has a brother and sister-in-law in Vermont. I spoke with the brother yesterday evening and he didn't know anything about it."

"What about the sister-in-law? Maybe they were close," Lewin noted.

"I didn't speak with her. I'll make a note to give her a call and see if she knows anything," Carmichael promised.

McCoy stretched and sat up straighter. "So what's the bottom line?"

"Well, it's all subject to what I find in the medical records, but right now, between the statement Grayson originally gave to the police, the attorney who drew up the guardianship agreement two weeks before she killed her husband, and the lack of any corroboration of the abuse, I'd say we have a strong case. Premeditation would be trickier to prove, but murder two is more than viable if we go to trial."

"I'm not talking about a trial," McCoy said pointedly. "I want to know what you think is a fair offer for a plea."

With a sigh, Carmichael answered, "With the way things stand now, I think the offer on the table is very generous. Man one, six to twelve, is more than fair as far as I'm concerned."

"You know Calea will never go for that," McCoy stated, shaking his head.

"I know," Carmichael agreed. "And that's why I'm not giving a lot of thought to a plea. She's already made up her mind. Unless we drop the charges, this case is going to trial."

"Let's not jump the gun," Lewin admonished. "The medical records are an important factor to consider. See what you can find out from those before you make a decision."

"They're supposed to be here in the morning," Carmichael informed her. "If there were any hospital visits, I may have to track down those reports individually before I know for sure, but I should have a pretty good idea of what we're looking at by tomorrow afternoon."

"Jury selection for the Armstrong trial was completed today," McCoy pointed out. "They'll be sworn in tomorrow, and Thursday we give opening remarks. I would prefer to have you fill the second chair, so try to work things out as early as possible. If there's nothing to help Grayson in the medical records, take what you have to Calea and see what she says. Even with what you've found so far, I still think you should consider man two as an option."

He could tell by the looks on the faces of the two women that they both disagreed with him, but Lewin answered simply, "We'll see."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Despite the off-and-on-again drizzle, Carmichael chose to leave her umbrella on the passenger seat when she got out of her car. After making sure that she wasn't parked in a tow zone, she walked close to the wall of the office building and managed to make it to the front door relatively dry.

After signing in with the security guard, she took the stairs up to the third floor. Upon entering the designated office, she was greeted by a receptionist.

"May I help you?"

"I'm Abbie Carmichael. I'm here to see Calea."

The other woman smiled broadly. "It's nice to finally meet you, Abbie. I'm Melissa Cranston. Calea talks about you so much, I feel I already know you."

Carmichael returned the smile. "She's told me a lot about you too, Melissa. She said you have a little boy named Jace who is absolutely adorable."

The other woman rolled her eyes. "I don't know about the 'adorable' part. Last night while I was studying, he drew a beautiful picture with markers for me. Unfortunately, it was on the kitchen wall." As Carmichael laughed, she reached for the phone. "I'll let Calea know you're here."

Seconds later, she hung up the receiver. "She said to send you back. It's the office at the end of the hallway."

"Thank you," Carmichael replied.

Upon reaching Morgan's office, she found the door open.

"Hey, Stranger," Morgan greeted her from a paper-strewn desk. "What brings you here?"

Carmichael scanned the room and said, "You're my excuse for cutting out early today." She strolled to the window behind Morgan's desk and added, "Nice view of the parking lot."

"At least my office has a window," Morgan retorted as Carmichael took a seat across from her. "And this way I can keep an eye on my car. Although, lately I've been thinking of not watching it so closely. You know, once they've been wrecked cars are never quite the same again."

"Well if you decide to 'accidentally' leave the keys in it, make sure you lock it first. Otherwise, the insurance won't pay up."

Morgan grinned. "I'll keep that in mind."

Growing more serious, Carmichael informed her, "I'm here to talk with you about Sara Grayson."

"What's the verdict?"

"I've spent the last few days checking out her story and it doesn't look good for her. No one can back up the abuse claim. Besides Sandy Hamilton, no one else even suspected. She didn't talk to any coworkers, former neighbors, or her brother and sister-in-law about it. Her medical records show that of all the doctor's visits and the one trip to the hospital she had in the last five years, there was never a hint that her husband was the cause of any injuries. To be honest, I'm finding it difficult to believe her claim. This certainly wouldn't be the first time someone made something up to talk their way out of a murder charge."

"You can't expect evidence of abuse to be that obvious," Morgan argued. She studied Carmichael for a moment before adding quietly, "You and I know all too well that most victims are very good at hiding what has happened, or is happening to them."

Carmichael's gaze dropped quickly to the floor and she shifted uncomfortably in her chair at the pointed personal remark.

Morgan continued, "It's all part of the cycle. The one being abused is embarrassed and feels at least partly to blame because the abuser destroys their self-esteem and rational thought. Spousal and child abuse are crimes of secrecy, which is one of the things that makes them so difficult to fight. The fact that you can't find anything to back up Sara's claim should help convince you that she is telling the truth. If she had simply planned to get rid of her husband and use abuse as a defense, it stands to reason that she would've claimed he was beating her to anyone who would listen in order to establish justification." Morgan chewed her lip in indecision for a moment before adding, "Strictly off the record, the oldest daughter confirms the abuse."

"You spoke with her?"

Morgan nodded. "Yes, I did."

"You know I have to hear it from her to use it as a consideration. If I'm satisfied that she's telling the truth, I'll consider knocking the charges down."

"Knocking them down as in eliminating them?"

"That's unrealistic. No matter what her husband did, your client took the law into her own hands. If she had handled things properly, Mitchell Grayson might be the one sitting in Riker's right now instead of Sara. She can't expect to get off scot-free after killing him in his sleep."

"Then the children are off limits. These kids are shell-shocked, Abbie; they are emotional wrecks. Alissa was barely coherent when I spoke with her. They've come from living in one horrible situation to dealing with one that's even worse. If you could give me some assurance that the charges would be dropped, it would be worth it to let you speak with them. But without that guarantee, letting a jury decide whether or not Sara is telling the truth is a better option for us."

Shaking her head Carmichael said, "I don't think a jury is going to be as forgiving as you think. Not after hearing from Mitchell's coworkers and friends about what a devoted family man he was, or how Sara started making plans weeks before she actually killed him, then carried out her plan at a time when he couldn't fight back."

"The Courts are on my side," Morgan insisted. "If the Massachusetts Supreme Court can allow Deborah Conaghan to use battered-woman-syndrome to explain why she helped her abusive boyfriend beat her own five year old to death, Sara can certainly use the same defense to explain her actions."

"So this is going to turn into a war of the psycho-babble experts," Carmichael suggested dryly.

Morgan shrugged. "We'll do what we have to. Sara Grayson doesn't deserve to be punished for what she's done. And I'll use whatever means are at my disposal to make sure she isn't."

Carmichael crossed her arms and studied Morgan for a moment. "I'm surprised at you. It sounds like you condone anything any woman does in response to an abusive situation, real or imagined."

"On the record, I'm simply doing my job by representing my client as diligently as possible." Morgan leaned forward on her elbows. "Off the record, I think any woman who participates in the injury or death of her own child, for any reason, deserves the maximum punishment the law allows. The welfare of a woman's children should be the single most important consideration in her life. And if someone is threatening those children, a woman is not only justified, but _obligated_ to use whatever force is necessary to eliminate that threat."

"Mitchell Grayson wasn't threatening their children," Carmichael reminded her.

Morgan turned her chair and stood up, walking over to stand in front of the window. "I've spent three days talking with her now. I don't say I agree with what she did, but there is one thing I'm absolutely convinced of: Sara's children are more important to her than her own life or well-being. She never would've taken the action she did just to protect herself. Whether anyone else can see it or not, she reacted to what she perceived to be a threat to her kids. No one else walked in her shoes. It isn't for us to say that there wasn't a sufficient threat. In Sara's eyes, there was. And I will defend her accordingly, whatever my personal feelings may be."

With a deep sigh, Carmichael leaned back. "Then I guess we take this to a jury. I suppose you'll want a quick trial date."

"The sooner we get this over with, the sooner my client returns to her children," Morgan agreed.

"I'll see how quickly we can get placed on the court docket. Jack isn't going to be too happy about this. He all but threatened my life if I didn't work something out with you this afternoon."

Returning to her chair, Morgan asked, "Why? What's the problem?"

"The problem is I won't be filling the second chair for him on a trial he's starting tomorrow." At Morgan's questioning look, she explained, "Jack is going to be tied up with the Armstrong trial for at least four or five weeks. Nora and I have talked it over, and I'm going to try this case myself."

Morgan's eyebrows shot up. "You and I are going to face off on this one?"

"Yeah, why?" Carmichael asked with a challenging smile. "You think I'm going to be a push-over for you?"

"Not at all. I think it's great. A female defendant, defense, and prosecutor. All we need now is a female judge to complete the set. So who is going to fill Jack's second chair?"

"My assistant, Serena. It will be her first trial."

"Uh-oh. He can't be too thrilled about that," Morgan observed. "No wonder he wanted us to come to terms."

"That reminds me, I need to call and let him know the outcome of our conversation. Is there a phone I can use where I'll have some privacy, in case he pitches a fit?"

"Sure. You can use the one in the conference room. And you can blame the lack of a plea agreement on my stubbornness. You know he'll buy that!"

"Don't worry, I will," Carmichael promised. "How much longer are you going to work? I was hoping to drag you out of here early so we could run while it's still daylight."

Morgan surveyed her messy desk and sighed. "It's going to take at least a couple more hours to finish all of this." She looked up at Carmichael and smiled. "Give me fifteen minutes."

***"I did everything I could. You know how she is once she's made up her mind. She wouldn't even have agreed to probation with no jail time. And there's no way we can drop the charges on this one."

McCoy gritted his teeth as he held the phone. He considered suggesting that he take a run at persuading Morgan, but thought better of it considering his and Carmichael's last few tense conversations. "The Armstrong trial is going to be a tough one, Abbie. I need all the help I can get."

"You told me Serena did well during voir dire. For the last three days, I've spent time coaching her on what to do at trial. I'll talk with her in the morning before you leave for court and give her some more pointers. She'll do fine."

He huffed out a breath. "Your pointers can't compensate for her lack of experience! And you can't tell her everything she needs to know in three days!"

"She learns very quickly, and she's really excited about working with you on this. Be patient with her, Jack. I know she'll be great."

With a resigned sigh he asked, "Who's going to fill your second chair on the Grayson trial?"

"I'm thinking of asking Todd Penland."

"So you take the A.D.A. with six years of experience, and stick me with Serena? That hardly seems fair!"

Carmichael grinned. "Funny how that worked out."

"Oh, it's hysterical! I can hardly stop laughing," McCoy grumped. "Are you coming back to the office today?"

"No. By the time I fought the traffic get there, it would be time to turn around and go home. Calea and I are going to take off for our run in a few minutes."

"It's raining," McCoy pointed out.

"Like she says, we're not made of sugar; we won't melt."

"You won't hear an argument from me on that subject. The two of you have thoroughly convinced me of your lack of sweetness today," he noted. With a smile softening his voice he added, "Tell her I said that if I lose the Armstrong trial, it will be her fault for stealing my second chair. And both of you be careful this evening."

"See you in the morning, Jack."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Carmichael stretched in her chair, arching her back until she heard a satisfying pop as the joints realigned. She had spent the last four days preparing for the trial, interviewing witnesses and reviewing forensic testimony. It had been a long four days but she was pleased with the way the case was progressing. Penland was proving to be an able assistant and she was confident that in no more than a week, they would be well prepared for trial. But she had to admit to feeling a twinge of envy every morning when Southerlyn left for court with McCoy, and in the evening when she found the two of them head to head, reviewing notes for the following day. She had grown accustomed to the routine of assisting him, and missed their familiar banter - even if she was still irritated with him over his lack of support on her case.

She looked up as Penland appeared at her door with an arm-load of files.

"Are you ready to go over the battered-woman-syndrome case precedents?"

"All of those?" she asked in dismay. "We'll be here all night!"

"I've skimmed through most of them. It won't be as bad as you think." After depositing them on her desk and pulling up a chair, he promised, "After we finish, I'll buy you dinner."

"After we finish, I'm going to change clothes, drive across town to meet a friend, run five or six miles, pick up dinner on the way home, eat while I catch up on the news, then collapse into bed."

Penland shook his head in amusement. "Ever hear the old saying, 'all work and no play'?"

"Of course," she answered with a shrug. "And just for the record, I've been called much worse than 'dull'."

***McCoy nearly collided with Penland as he came around the corner near Carmichael's office.

"Hey, Jack. How did court go today?"

"Fine," McCoy answered curtly. "Have you seen Abbie? A message just came in for her."

"She left about twenty minutes ago. She said she was going to go running."

"Great. She never takes her pager when she runs." He sighed in frustration. "Judge Yee's clerk called. The defendant in a case she had scheduled to begin next week agreed to take a plea today, and the defense isn't ready on another case that was going to take the slot. She wants to know if the two of you can be prepared to begin the Grayson trial by next Wednesday. Jury selection would start on Monday."

Penland shook his head. "I don't know. We finished going over some case precedents this evening, but we still have quite a few witnesses to prepare. Abbie is the one who could tell you if we can be ready by then."

"The clerk said she needs an answer tonight." He checked his watch. "I still have depositions to review for court tomorrow, or I'd take the message to her."

"I was about to leave, and I'd be glad to deliver it," Penland offered, "but I don't have any idea where Abbie was going to meet her friend."

McCoy brightened. "I think I can tell you where to find them."

***As Morgan and Carmichael rounded the corner at the far end of the park, an approaching figure immediately caught their attention. When the person continued to walk straight toward them, they both slowed their pace and eyed him cautiously.

"It's Todd," Carmichael finally said when he was close enough to recognize.

Coming to an abrupt stop, Morgan placed her hands on her hips. "What the heck is he doing here, Abbie? This place is supposed to be off-limits to anyone else! Why did you tell him where he could find you?"

"Oh, calm down!" Carmichael advised lightly, cutting across the grass. "I didn't tell him anything. Jack must've told him where to find me."

When Penland joined them, he nodded to Morgan. "You must be Calea. Abbie's told me about you. I'm Todd Penland, the A.D.A. assisting her on the Grayson case."

Eyeing him coolly Morgan responded, "I've heard something about you as well."

Penland looked them up and down, smiling appreciatively. "You two look great out there. All that hard work really shows."

"Why are you here, Todd?" Carmichael asked pointedly, ignoring his remark.

"A message came in for you, and Jack told me I could catch up with you here. Judge Yee's clerk needs to know tonight if we can be prepared for the Grayson trial by next Wednesday, with jury selection beginning on Monday."

Carmichael nodded thoughtfully. "That's a little sooner than I had planned, but we should be ready." Turning to Morgan she asked, "How about you? We may as well save her a phone call and let her know the status for both of us at the same time."

"That isn't a problem for me, either."

"Okay," Carmichael informed Penland. "You can call and tell her it's a go for both the prosecution and defense."

"I'll do that," he assured them. Surveying their surroundings he added, "This is a great place to run. How did you find it?"

Morgan leaned a shoulder against Carmichael's and began nudging her back toward their paths. "Just one of those things," she answered. "Nice to meet you. Say, 'Good-bye, Abbie.'"

Carmichael giggled and waved at Penland. "See you in the morning."

"Have fun," he called as the two took off again. He followed them with his eyes a minute more before retracing his steps to the exit.

***"Voir dire starts at 9:30 Monday morning," Carmichael said into the phone. "Judge Yee's clerk was relieved that we took the spot."

"I'm glad it came available. A female judge is what we wanted," Morgan acknowledged. "Oh, before I forget, I'll be about thirty minutes late for our run this evening. A client is stopping by to pick up a contract after she leaves her work."

"No problem. I have plenty to keep me busy here."

"Jack wouldn't happen to be back from court, would he?"

"Not yet," Carmichael answered. "They started an hour late this morning, so I don't expect him back for another forty-five minutes or so. Why?"

"It's nothing important. I'll call him later." There was a brief pause after which Morgan said, "Melissa says I have a client waiting, so I'd better go. Thanks for letting me know about jury selection."

"You're welcome. See you later."

***"McCoy," he responded into his phone.

"Jack, it's Calea."

He leaned back in his chair and smiled. "Calea, who? I must know at least a dozen women with the same first name."

"Very funny," Morgan commented. "Tell me one other."

"Hmm. Now that I think about it, maybe I do know only one. How did you come by such an unusual name, anyway?"

"I was named for my grandmothers, Catherine and Amelia. My mother came up with a combination of the two."

"Well, she did a nice job," he noted. "Are you calling to chew me out for sending Todd Penland to your secret rendezvous? Abbie said you were kind of ticked last night when he showed up."

"I wasn't too thrilled to see him, and I probably should chew you out. But things worked out well with the trial date, so I guess you're off the hook. I'm calling because I have a favor to ask."

"You want me to tell you what your opposition is up to?"

"I'm not the least bit concerned about that!" she assured him. "My request is of a more personal nature. Drew Compton and his wife, Grace, are coming from Chicago for a visit at the end of next week. The Fairchilds have six tickets to a Broadway play, so we're all going to the show and then to dinner afterwards. Peter and Leslie have been trying to fix me up with one of their friends, and if I don't find someone to go with on my own, they're going to invite him. Would you be interested in going with me?"

A surprised smile lit up his face. "Are you asking me out on a date?"

"No! I mean… Yes, I'm asking you out... but it wouldn't be a date," she replied, clearly flustered. "I'm just asking for you to help me out of a bind... as a friend."

"Oh. So you don't want me to be your date; you only want to use me to save you from an uncomfortable situation," he reasoned slowly, trying to sound hurt.

"I didn't mean for it to sound like that. To be honest, I would be perfectly content to go by myself, but my so-called 'friends' seem to think that I need to pair off with someone. The Fairchilds have both assured me that this other guy is really great, but I'd rather go with someone I know than with someone I've never met. You know I don't like surprises."

"So the only reason you're asking me is because I'm predictable and familiar, like an old pair of shoes," he suggested, sounding even more wounded.

"I didn't say that!" Morgan argued. "It's just that, as far as I'm concerned, jumping off of a building would be preferable to going on a blind date."

He coughed out a breath. "I don't know how much more of this my self-esteem can take! Now I've gone from being someone you can count on to help you out, to being only one step up from a fate worse than _death_!"

"That isn't what I meant!" Morgan exclaimed. "I was only trying…"

There was a pause on the other end of the line, during which time McCoy bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He was about to confess that he was teasing when she said, "I don't think this is going very well. I'm only getting myself in deeper. Maybe I should hang up and try again."

He opened his mouth to protest, but before he had the chance he was confronted by the abrupt sound of a dial tone.

As he replaced the receiver of his phone, he gave way to a fit of laughter. The phone had been out of his hand for less than thirty seconds when it rang again. He let it ring three times while he regained his composure, then answered in his sternest executive assistant district attorney's voice: "McCoy."

"Jack, this is Calea Morgan. How are you?"

"I'm fine," he answered briskly. "What can I do for you?"

"I've been invited by some friends to a Broadway play and dinner a week from this Saturday. Would you care to accompany me?"

He sighed thoughtfully and noisily rifled through some papers. "I'll have to check my calendar. Can I get back to you?"

"Jack! Now what was wrong that time?" Morgan asked in exasperation.

He could no longer contain his laughter. "Not a thing! And I would be delighted to join you!"

"Finally! I was beginning to think that the blind date might not be so bad after all. I doubt that he would've given me the third degree for inviting _him_ to a free show and dinner."

"I'm sorry," McCoy offered, still chuckling. "I thought I'd make you squirm a little. My day has been so dull, I needed some amusement."

"Well, you know me. I'm always good for a laugh or two," Morgan pointed out brightly. "How's the trial coming along?"

"Fine. It would be better if I had Abbie's help, but thanks to you, I don't."

"You're welcome," Morgan retorted. "But you have to take some of the credit yourself. If you hadn't been so adamant about my client's prosecution, Abbie wouldn't be tied up with her trial."

McCoy started to admit that the prosecution hadn't been his idea, but decided against it. Adam Schiff's voice rang clearly in his head: _Always present a united front_. "It's probably good that a woman is handling it anyway."

"Things worked out well. I'm glad we received such a quick trial date. My client needs to be reunited with her children as soon as possible."

"You have to win an acquittal first. And I should warn you, Abbie's tough. I've seen her in action; I'd put her up against any defense attorney in town."

"That's quite the compliment," Morgan noted. "I'll be sure to tell her you said that. Speaking of Abbie, I'm supposed to meet her shortly, so I'd better get moving. Thanks for agreeing to go to the play with me. I'll let you know the details as soon as I find out."

"I'm sure we'll be bumping into each other once your trial starts next week. Maybe we can get together for lunch."

"I'd like that," Morgan agreed. "Have a good evening, Jack."

"You too. And thanks for the invitation, such that it was!" He added sincerely, "I really am looking forward to it."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Silence fell over the courtroom as Carmichael stood in front of the jury box. Each juror's undivided attention was focused on her as she began.

"You are not here today to determine whether or not the defendant killed her husband. That fact is not in dispute, as she has freely admitted doing so. The issue you are here to decide is whether or not she was _justified_ in taking his life. And in order to determine that, you must first learn why she acted as she did.

"Why did Sara Grayson stab to death her husband of over twenty years, and father to her three children?

"We will prove to you that she carefully planned and carried out the death of Mitchell Grayson. In a tape of her confession to the police that will be played for you, when asked the reason she states that she no longer wanted to be married and felt she only had one way out. But how could she possibly have seen her husband's death as the only way out of her marriage to him? Friends and coworkers of Mitchell are going to tell you what a devoted family man he was, and how proud he was of his wife and children. How can Mrs. Grayson justify the action she took?

"The defendant is going to use the same defense that other women have used, sometimes legitimately, sometimes not. She's going to claim that her husband abused her. She hopes you will forget that she told the police he _didn't_ abuse her or her children. She hopes you will overlook the fact that she didn't tell anyone else about this alleged abuse until after she was arrested and charged with Mitchell's death. Now Mrs. Grayson's explanation is that she was so afraid of her husband, she was forced to take the law into her own hands and kill him in order to defend herself and her children. But if she truly believed she was acting in self-defense, why did she try to cover up what she had done? Why didn't she come forward? The cold hard evidence is going to show you that Sara Grayson didn't act like an abused spouse, neither before nor after killing her husband.

"You are going to hear conflicting viewpoints in this trial. Once the entire case has been presented, you will have to choose for yourselves what you feel is the truth. But at the end of this trial, no matter how you feel about Mrs. Grayson or what you believe she has or hasn't suffered, there is a key piece of evidence you must keep in mind when you ask yourself the questions I have posed, evidence that is also not in dispute: Sara Grayson killed her husband at a time when he was totally defenseless - while he was asleep. And that, ladies and gentlemen, we call murder."

As soon as Carmichael had returned to her seat, Morgan stood up and approached the bailiff. Indicating the book lying beside him, she asked, "May I?"

The bailiff picked up the barely worn Bible and placed it in her hand. Approaching the jury, she held it for them to see.

"This is the most widely translated and distributed book in the history of humanity. It is available in whole or in part in over 2,000 different languages and dialects. Some people believe it to be inspired of God, a message from Him given to humans. Others believe it is merely a collection of well-meaning fiction. No matter what your personal beliefs are on the subject, there is one fact none of us here can deny: This book has had a profound influence on mankind all through history, and continues to do so today. Much of its influence has been for the betterment of those who have read it and tried to adhere to its standards. But by the same token, many horrendous atrocities have been committed by some who claim to act in harmony with its teachings. We have only to look at the Inquisitions, the blessing of weapons of war by opposing so-called 'Christian' factions, or ethnic cleansings by those who claim to be Christian, to prove this point. Most of us would be hard put to justify or reconcile any of these actions with a book whose main theme is one of love. But whatever our individual opinion of this book, we must admit that it has been misused by some people to justify injuring others for their own personal reasons.

"Mitchell Grayson was such a person. He belonged to a group of men who called themselves righteous, all the while subjecting their wives to brutal, embarrassing, and inhumane treatment in the name of their religious beliefs. I would like to read to you the scripture they use to justify their actions. It is found in Genesis 3:16. In this passage, God is speaking to Eve. 'To the woman he said: "I shall greatly increase the pain of your pregnancy; in birth pangs you will bring forth children, and your craving will be for your husband, _and he will dominate you_."' After hearing those words, there are many who would say this book is sexist and oppressive to women. And many men, including Mitchell Grayson, have taken those words to mean that anything they do to their wives is sanctioned by God. He and others like him have overlooked or failed to acknowledge many other passages that show how God truly views women and expects for men to treat them. For instance, Ephesians 5:28, 29 says, 'In this way husbands ought to be loving their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife loves himself, for no man ever hated his own flesh; but he feeds and cherishes it.'

Morgan closed the book, handed it back to the bailiff, and then slowly returned to the jury. She spoke quietly when she continued.

"I could stand here and tell you some of the things Sara Grayson and her children have suffered. But only Sara, in her own words, can accurately convey the terror she lived under for the past twenty years. Although I will provide you with experts and statistics that will help all of us understand some of the psychological reasons for the action she took, ultimately it will be Sara herself who will convince you that what she did was anything but murder. Thank you."

***The only light illuminating Carmichael's office came from the hallway. After tossing her briefcase onto her desk, she plopped into her chair and slipped out of her shoes. She leaned back and closed her eyes, trying to clear her mind. There were notes to make and tomorrow's testimony to review with Penland, but for the moment all she wanted to do was relax.

The quiet of her office was disrupted by footsteps followed by McCoy's voice. "Long day?"

She didn't bother to straighten, only opened her eyes and nodded slightly.

"I wanted to pop in for your opening, but I couldn't get away." He took a seat in the armchair across from her desk and stretched his long legs out in front of him. "Arnold Hansen testified today. He did well."

"That's good. Are things working out with Serena?"

McCoy nodded. "She's learning. Given a few more trials, she'll be up to par. How did opening go?"

"Fine. The jury was on the edge of their seats."

"Sorry I missed it. I guess I'll have to read the transcripts. What do you have lined up for tomorrow?"

Carmichael sat up and began pulling files from her briefcase. "Oh, you know the drill. The next few days will be filled with expert testimony: Briscoe relating how they finally tracked Sara Grayson down, someone from C.S.U. on the crime scene, Rodgers from forensics. All the usual suspects. Tomorrow I'm going to start with an expert on battered-woman-syndrome. I want the jury to understand that most women who finally kill their abusers turn themselves in immediately afterwards. Then when all the other testimony shows how Sara Grayson planned and tried to hide what she had done, they'll see that she doesn't fit the profile of an abused spouse. I'm going to leave the defense with a lot of explaining to do."

McCoy was glad that Carmichael's coolness toward him had warmed somewhat. Until only the last couple of days, she had seemed reluctant to discuss any details of her case with him, no matter how solicitous and supportive he had been once resigning himself to the circumstances.

"It sounds like you have everything under control. I hope things go well for you."

"Thanks, Jack. Same for you."

"I was thinking that since we both start at 9:00 in the morning and should break for lunch about the same time, maybe you and Calea could have lunch with me. Serena has an errand to run, so I'll be all by my lonesome."

"I'll have to check with Calea. Todd will be with us, too."

"Can't you find an errand for him to run?"

"You want me to ditch my indispensable second chair? What do have against him, anyway?"

"Nothing. I was just hoping to have lunch with two beautiful women all by myself," he admitted, standing up and heading for the door. "Let me know if you can make it."

"I'll talk with Calea when we run tonight and get back to you in the morning," Carmichael said with a smile. "Oh, and Jack, would you turn on the light for me?"


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Carmichael picked up her briefcase and started for the back of the courtroom. "I'm going to go see if Jack is ready."

"I'll come with you," Morgan offered.

Penland turned the opposite way once they reached the hallway. "I'll meet you out front."

Upon reaching the double doors marked "Part 44", the two women slipped quietly into the nearly full courtroom and found a vacant spot on the back row of benches. Along with everyone else present, they listened intently as McCoy questioned a prosecution witness.

When he finished and turned around to resume his seat, a slight movement from Carmichael caught his eye. It was all he could do to keep a properly serious expression on his face instead of breaking into a smile at the sight of her and Morgan.

The defense attorney completed a short cross-examination, after which the judge announced lunch recess. As the courtroom began to clear, Morgan and Carmichael waited for McCoy to join them.

"I see you two made it," he observed. "Did Todd have something else to do after all?"

"No," Carmichael answered. "He's waiting for us."

After McCoy had introduced her and Morgan, Southerlyn said, "Well, have a good lunch, everyone. I'll meet you back here, Jack."

"Don't be late," he admonished. He missed the slightly annoyed look she gave him as he turned his attention back to the other two women. "Let's go. I'm starved!"

***"Yes, the majority of the thousands of cases that come through our office every year are handled with a plea bargain," McCoy agreed somewhat defensively. "If it weren't for pleas, the courts would be jammed with non-stop appeals. At least when people plead out, we don't have to worry about seeing them in the courtroom again for the same case, except under extreme circumstances. And we certainly don't have the time or resources to see every person accused of a crime through a fell-blown trial. It isn't a perfect system, but it's the only one we have."

"I'm not saying plea bargains don't have their place in our justice system," Morgan argued, "but too many P.D.'s see them as _the_ way to dispose of every case. Some of them haven't been involved in an actual trial for years."

McCoy finished chewing a bite of linguine and noted, "P.D.'s are some of the most overworked links in the entire criminal justice chain. They carry incredible case loads. They don't have the time to go through a trial for every client either."

"And some of them use overwork as an excuse to slack off from providing their clients with competent representation. They use a plea bargain as a quick and easy way to settle a case instead of doing so much as a cursory examination of the relevant facts." Morgan took a sip of tea and added, "There's more to some defendants than meets the eye at first glance. You can't fast forward people like Sara Grayson through the system. It takes a little digging to get to the truth. And not to mention any names, but some P.D.'s aren't willing to put in the time and effort."

"Since this whole conversation started when I said that I had worked with Brenda Radcliffe on another case recently, I think we all know to whom you're referring," McCoy said pointedly.

Morgan shrugged. "If the shoe fits."

Before McCoy could respond, Carmichael held up her hand. "Enough! You two are giving me a headache. Can't we talk about something more neutral, like politics?"

With a grin, McCoy relented. "Much as I'm enjoying myself, I guess we could call a truce for the remainder of our lunch break."

"What would _you_ like to talk about?" Morgan asked Carmichael with a patronizing smile.

Ignoring the sarcasm she suggested, "How about running? I can't make it tomorrow evening. Do you want to go Saturday instead?"

"I can't. I need to spend the morning getting caught up at the office, and I have plans for the afternoon and evening. But we could go this evening. I know it was supposed to be our night off and it will mean running four days in a row, but we would have three days to recuperate."

Carmichael nodded. "I'm game if you are."

Penland had chosen to stay out of the debate between Morgan and McCoy, as had Carmichael, but perked up at the conversation between the two women.

"How much did you say the two of you run?"

"Usually five or six miles, four days a week," Carmichael answered.

"Not bad," he nodded. "I ran quite a bit when I was in school and I've been thinking of taking it up again. I could use someone to run with to get me motivated, and the place where you meet is perfect."

As Penland took another bite of his lunch, and his attention was otherwise occupied, Morgan took the opportunity to give Carmichael a warning look.

Taking the hint, Carmichael quickly responded, "You wouldn't appreciate our schedules. We meet at odd times and run in almost any kind of weather. We share the postman's motto: 'neither rain, nor sleet, nor gloom of night.'"

"I work the same kind of hours you do," he reminded her. "And the weather doesn't bother me. I'd love to tag along with you two sometime, if you wouldn't mind."

"We'll see," Carmichael answered unenthusiastically. She shrugged slightly at the glare she received from Morgan.

McCoy suppressed a smile at the silent exchange between the women. "You had better be in shape or these two will leave you in the dust."

"Oh, I think I can hold my own," Penland answered confidently.

"Don't underestimate them," McCoy cautioned. "They've been at it for a long time."

Penland gave Carmichael an appreciative smile. "I can tell."

When they had finished eating, the four walked back to the criminal courts building. Once inside, McCoy steered Morgan away from the elevators, indicating to Penland and Carmichael that they preferred taking the stairs.

When they were out of earshot of the other two he asked, "What's the plan for Saturday?"

Morgan shook her head at his eager expression. "You mean this Saturday, the one I had to twist your arm into agreeing to spend with me?"

He reached to open the door of the stairwell with one hand, and placed the other at the small of her back to guide her inside. "I've had some time to reflect and come to my senses," he confessed with a smile.

Returning the smile, Morgan explained, "The play starts at 6:00 and we have dinner reservations for 8:30. I'm going to pick Drew and Grace up at their hotel around 5:00, and we'll meet the Fairchilds at the theater. So I guess you can meet us somewhere along the way, or you and I can get together before I pick up the Compton's."

"Where are they staying?"

"The Regency."

"Then why don't I pick you up at your place about 4:00? That will give us plenty of time to get midtown by 5."

"All right," Morgan agreed. "I wasn't looking forward to driving there by myself."

"When are the Compton's arriving?"

"They're flying in tomorrow afternoon. I'll be in court so my assistant, Tony, offered to pick them up and bring them here. I'll take them to their hotel after we finish for the day. If Part 44 lets out around the same time that we do, maybe you can meet Grace."

"I'd like that," McCoy said, holding the door open as they exited the stairwell. "If I'm not quite finished, wait for me. You know that judges seldom go past 5:00 on Fridays."

Morgan nodded. "You'll like Grace, but I should warn you: She's about the most outspoken person I've ever met. If she has something to say, she's not shy about speaking her mind."

"I think I like her already. I can't wait to meet her." McCoy stopped in the hallway outside of the courtroom marked "Part 36". "If I don't see you before tomorrow, have a good evening. And don't be too hard on Abbie in there," he added with a smile.

"I can't make any promises about _that_!" Morgan replied resolutely. "See you tomorrow, Jack."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

"Detective Briscoe, Ms. Carmichael's questions for you centered mainly on the difficulty you and Detective Green had in identifying Mitchell Grayson and then on finding his wife. I would like to ask you about Sara Grayson's attitude when you did find her. Would you please tell us what she said when you identified yourselves and first spoke with her?"

"She said that she had been expecting us."

"Expecting you for what reason?"

"She indicated that she had been expecting us to find her, and assumed that our being there had something to do with her husband."

"So you approached her, told her Mitchell Grayson was dead, that you wanted to question her about his death, and she said that she had been expecting you. Is that correct?"

"No," Briscoe answered. "At the time, we hadn't positively identified the victim we found at the Grayson's former residence. Our main objective was to determine whether or not the body actually was that of Mitchell Grayson. After Mrs. Grayson said that she had been expecting us and knew we were there about her husband, we began to question her about him."

"What did you ask her?"

"We started just by asking if she knew where her husband was."

"How did she answer?"

"She said she assumed that since we were there talking with her, we already knew where he was. And when we asked her why she would assume that, she wanted to know if we had or hadn't found her husband's body."

"Then Mrs. Grayson, in effect, identified the victim for you by telling you that her husband was dead within the first few minutes of meeting her?" Morgan prompted.

"Yes."

"What did you say then?"

"We asked if she knew what had happened to him."

"How did she answer?"

"She said, 'I thought you knew. I killed him.' "

"So not only did she confess, she assumed that you already knew she was the one who had killed him?"

"Yes."

"Detective, we've already watched the video of the conversation you, your partner, and Lieutenant Van Buren had with Mrs. Grayson once you reached the police station. What conclusion did you come to after that conversation?"

Briscoe shifted slightly in his chair and glanced at Carmichael. He knew where Morgan's questions were heading and he knew Carmichael wasn't going to like his answers, especially considering that he was a prosecution witness. "I was convinced that Mrs. Grayson had murdered her husband without provocation."

"Do you still feel that way?"

Carmichael rose. "Objection: speculation. The People called Detective Briscoe to testify within his area of expertise, that of investigating the death of a homicide victim and tracking down the party responsible. His personal opinion as to Mrs. Grayson's motive is irrelevant."

"Detective Briscoe is a police officer with almost twenty-seven years on the force. This isn't the first homicide he has investigated where a husband was killed by his wife. Due to his experience, he's certainly qualified to tell us what opinion he formed as a result of his investigation," Morgan stated.

Judge Yee nodded. "Objection overruled. You may answer the question."

"No, I don't think she acted without cause," Briscoe answered.

"What made you change your mind?" Morgan asked.

"Objection," Carmichael said again. "May we approach, Your Honor?"

The judge waved her and Morgan forward, then covered the microphone in front of her with her hand.

Carmichael spoke quietly. "Your Honor, the defense is attempting to elicit testimony that is only hearsay. It has no basis in fact. Ms. Morgan wants the witness to testify about an unproven allegation made by a friend of Mrs. Grayson, and a report by a Detective Russell who investigated a religious group the Graysons belonged to. That investigation didn't involve the Graysons directly and no charges were ever filed as a result of it. In effect, the defense is asking Detective Briscoe for _his_ opinion on someone _else's_ opinion."

"The evidence I have is more than hearsay," Morgan argued. "I intend to call Detective Russell to tell the court about his investigation, and I will call a member of the religious group to state some of their beliefs. Detective Briscoe formed his opinion after extensive investigation. As The People have already stipulated, that is precisely what they called him to testify about. And Your Honor has already ruled that his opinion is admissible."

"His opinion on evidence that hasn't been properly introduced as of yet is not admissible," the judge noted. "After it is presented, and if it is allowed, you may then call the detective as a defense witness to ask what conclusion he drew. But his opinion on evidence that has not even been introduced is disallowed."

Morgan and Carmichael turned away and Judge Yee announced to the court, "Objection sustained."

"I have no further questions at this time," Morgan announced. "I would, however, like to reserve the right to recall this witness at a later date."

As Briscoe rose and returned to the gallery, Judge Yee checked the clock on the back wall of the courtroom. "Due to the hour, court will adjourn for the day. We will resume Monday morning at 9:00."

Morgan spoke briefly with her client, then quickly gathered her belongings as Grayson was led away. She turned and searched the mostly departing observers until she spotted three familiar faces.

"Come on," she urged Carmichael. "They're here." Without waiting, she started for the back of the courtroom.

The three people met her halfway to the door. Morgan reached a small woman with outstretched arms first and embraced her warmly. "It is so good to see you, Grace!"

"Oh, you too, Honey," the woman responded, beaming.

Morgan turned and hugged the man standing beside her. "How are you, Drew?"

He smiled and squeezed her tightly. "I'm fine, Peaches. How are you?"

"I'm unbelievably happy now that you two are here," she stated. "Did you have any trouble finding them, Tony?"

Alvarez shook his head. "Not at all. We spotted each other right away. And the drive from the airport wasn't bad today so we made good time getting here."

"Grace, there is someone I really want you to meet," Morgan told her as Carmichael approached the group. "This is a very good friend of mine, Abbie Carmichael."

Shaking the woman's hand, Carmichael told her, "It's nice to finally meet you! Calea has been so excited about your visit, I almost suggested she take a tranquilizer at lunchtime. Welcome to New York."

"Thank you. This is my first visit, so I'm looking forward to seeing the sights."

Carmichael shook hands with Compton. "It's good to see you again, Drew. I'm glad you came back to visit under more pleasant circumstances."

"So am I," he agreed. "We arrived in time to hear a little of the trial. Nice work."

"Thanks. I hope you'll remember that if I ever show up on your doorstep looking for a job."

"Just give the word," Compton promised.

With a smile Carmichael said, "Speaking of work, I should be going. There are some things I have to do at the office before I can call it a day. It was good to meet you, Grace. I hope you both enjoy your stay."

"I have to be going, too," Alvarez quickly decided. "I'll walk out with you, Abbie." Giving the Comptons and Morgan a bright smile he added, "It was nice to meet the two of you. I'll see you at the office in the morning, Calea."

"I'll be in around 8:00, Tony. See you on Monday, Abbie." When they had departed, Morgan turned to the Comptons. "I know you've had a busy afternoon, so I can take you to the hotel now if you like. Or if you don't mind waiting, Jack should be finished in Part 44 at any time."

Grace Compton linked arms with Morgan as they began to stroll toward the door. "I've been waiting for months to meet Jack McCoy, and I wouldn't miss the opportunity for all the tea in China. The hotel can wait."

Morgan turned to her, but before she could respond the door in front of them opened and McCoy appeared.

He smiled as he approached them. "Looks like my timing is perfect." Holding his hand out to Compton he added, "If there's one thing you can count on, it's that the majority of judges like to head for the hills before 5:00 on Fridays. How's it going, Drew?"

Compton gripped his hand. "Fine, Jack. How is life treating you?"

"I can't complain."

"I'd like to introduce you to my wife," Compton offered, putting his arm around her. "This is Grace."

McCoy took her hand in his. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Grace."

She looked up into his dark eyes. "So you're Jack McCoy. I've heard quite a lot about you."

Glancing quickly at Morgan, he said, "I hope you won't hold that against me."

"Not at all," she replied. "I've really been looking forward to getting to know you."

Looking at Morgan again he suggested, "Well then why don't we get started right away? I know a little place near your hotel where we can sit down for a visit and have something to drink."

Morgan exchanged a look with Compton. "Well…"

Noting the look, McCoy quickly added, "If you've already made other plans, that's okay. We have tomorrow to get better acquainted."

As Compton regarded Morgan, his wife took a step toward McCoy. "Just ignore those two, Jack. They have some sort of private celebration planned. How would you like to have a drink with a fun-loving, mature woman with a great sense of humor?"

"Grace Elizabeth!" Compton exclaimed, a look of feigned shock on his face.

"Well why shouldn't I make plans for myself instead of waiting for the two of you to have your little affair? I didn't come to New York to sit alone in a hotel room!"

"At least you know who he's having the affair with," Morgan commented with an amused smile.

McCoy studied Morgan intently, trying to figure out what he had walked into. She met his look openly, as if she were waiting for his reaction.

Whatever was going on, he decided he was game. Turning his attention back to the other woman he told her, "I would love to have a drink with you. Why don't I come by and pick you up after you get settled into your room? Let's say about 6:00."

"It's a date," she nodded.

***Compton held out his glass and touched it lightly to Morgan's. "Seventeen years and counting. Three more before he'll even be eligible for parole."

"Let's hope the parole board has sense enough to keep him where he is," Morgan noted.

"The threats he made to you after the trial certainly aren't going to work in his favor. I kept every one of his notes in a file that I'm taking with me to his parole hearing, if he ever gets one. Any more letters?"

"Not since I moved to New York. I sent you the last one I received. I don't think there's any danger that he'll track me down, especially since I'm no longer using my married name." She took a sip of tea and then set the glass down. "I'm glad you could be here today. It hasn't been the same commemorating on my own. And the phone call last year didn't cut it either."

Compton nodded. "I'm glad things worked out, too. Every year I've thought about getting together, but wasn't sure it was a good idea given the way you left. Next year you have to come to Chicago, though. You owe us a visit."

"I know," Morgan agreed. "But it isn't easy to get away. If I take more than a couple of days, my practice starts to fall apart. It's hard to keep my clients happy sometimes."

"Have you thought about taking on a partner? It sounds like you have plenty of business for another person. It would free you up to do some traveling or just take some personal time."

Morgan's eyebrows arched. "I believe I'll pass on adding another name to the door, thank you very much. Considering my last experience with partners, I'm surprised you would even suggest such a thing."

"I guess I can understand that," Compton admitted wryly. "But it's something you will have to consider sooner or later, whether you like it or not. On the way from the airport Tony said your other assistant has graduated and passed the bar exam. He seems to think that she's making plans to stay with you indefinitely. I'm sure she isn't going to be content as an associate forever."

Morgan sighed. "I haven't decided what to do about Ann. When she first started with me, she made it clear that her goal was to become part of a Wall Street firm. And there's no denying that she has the skill to do so. But some of her friends are working for those kinds of firms now, and they've been telling her about their exciting careers as gophers and filing clerks. She's compared what they're doing to all the experience she's already received with me, and her goals have changed."

"It sounds like you like her, and she's worked with you for a quite a while. Surely you know something about her ethics by now."

"It isn't that I don't trust her," she acknowledged. "I just don't think she needs to work in my shadow. With a little more experience she's going to be an incredible attorney. If she practices on her own for a while and begins to make a name for herself, I think she'll have the opportunity to become a partner in one of the more prestigious firms in town. Or she could build a very successful practice of her own. She has a lot of options."

"And if she opts to stay with you?"

Morgan shrugged. "I really don't want a partner. I'll have to try to steer her in another direction. I wouldn't have any objections to helping set her up in an office of her own, even in the same building, and advising her when needed, but I'm happy practicing on my own. I don't need the kind of headaches that such a close relationship can bring."

Compton picked up his drink from the bar and asked casually, "And does that also apply to your personal life?"

Checking her watch Morgan muttered, "I wonder what's keeping Jack and Grace."

***"You and Drew have been at this about the same length of time but he's been an Executive A.D.A. a few more years than you. Sometimes I wish he hadn't taken the position. His stress level has increased considerably since doing so. If I didn't know for a fact that it would kill him to switch sides, I'd encourage him to get out of the D.A.'s office and into private practice. His heart wouldn't be in it, though."

McCoy swirled the ice in his club soda and nodded his agreement. "Once you've had a taste of being a prosecutor, it's difficult to think of doing anything else. Nothing can compare to the feeling you get from knowing you played a part in putting the bad guys where they can't do anymore harm."

Grace Compton shook her head. "How many times have I heard the same sentiments from Drew? Calea was right; you two are a couple of peas in a pod."

"And did she have anything else to say about me?" The question was posed casually, but the intense focus of his dark eyes belied his interest.

"Oh, quite a bit. But the last time we really had a chance to visit was when she was in the middle of defending Peter Fairchild and stayed overnight with us in Chicago. She wasn't in the best frame of mind at the time, particularly towards you."

As she took the last swallow of her vodka and tonic, McCoy asked, "Can I buy you another?"

She checked the neon-framed clock above the bar. "Aren't we supposed to meet Drew and Calea back at the hotel in a few minutes for dinner?"

McCoy gave her a smile. "How would you like to have dinner alone with a mature, fun-loving attorney instead?"

"Are you suggesting we stand them up?" she asked in surprise.

He shrugged. "They're the ones who left us to our own devices. They'll figure it out sooner or later. I know a barbecue place around the corner that makes the best ribs this side of Chicago. What do you say?"

With a broad grin she answered, "I say, lead the way, Jack. Ribs are my favorite."


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Saturday was busy for McCoy. All the chores and errands he had put off all week were waiting for him: dry cleaning to pick up, a package to mail to his sister, a stack of unopened letters on his desk to sort, and a week's worth of newspapers piled on the sofa waiting to be recycled. He also straightened the living room and cleaned the kitchen of his small apartment, just in case he and Morgan ended up spending any part of the evening at his place.

And he checked the clock often, eagerly anticipating the afternoon and evening.

He arrived at Morgan's building precisely at 3:50, although he had been dressed and ready to leave much earlier. Knowing how touchy women could be about such things, he didn't want to start the evening off on the wrong foot by arriving too much ahead of schedule.

After phoning from the lobby, he headed up to the fifth floor, then continued to the sixth in the private elevator that only serviced Morgan's apartment.

The doors opened and he found her waiting, shoes dangling from her fingertips, but otherwise dressed.

He smiled as he emerged from the elevator. "You look nice. Blue is my favorite color." He noticed with appreciation how the silky fabric of her dress clung in all the right places as Morgan walked to the kitchen bar stools and sat down to put on her shoes.

"Thanks. You look nice, too. I don't remember seeing you wear that suit before."

"I usually save it for special occasions. I considered wearing a tux but thought that may be a bit much for our plans."

Morgan rolled her eyes in amusement. "Uh, yeah. You're talking to someone who would live in jeans and t-shirts if I could get away with it, remember?" She stood up. "I'm ready to leave if you are."

"I'm ready," he agreed, turning around to push the elevator call button.

On the way down to the lobby McCoy leaned back against the elevator wall facing Morgan. "Did you get caught up at the office this morning?"

"I never get caught up, but I did take care of some things that were bugging me. I'm glad I did; I feel a lot less stressed than if I hadn't. I would've spent the morning with the Comptons, but Drew wanted to take Grace to see some of the sights alone. You know how mushy married couples can be," she added.

"There's nothing wrong with being mushy. It's those thoughtful little things that have probably kept them happily married for so long," McCoy observed. He openly looked her up and down again. "Did I tell you that blue is my favorite color?"

Morgan started to give him a warning look, then noting the teasing sparkle in his eyes, slowly shook her head and smiled. "I believe you did mention it."

When they were safely in his car and on their way across town, she turned within the constraints of the seatbelt to face him.

"What was the deal with you and Grace ditching us last night? We waited an hour and a half before we finally decided to eat without you."

He shrugged. "We were having such a great time, we decided to continue it at a restaurant. Besides, you and Drew had your own thing going on. We didn't think you'd notice."

He could feel Morgan's eyes on him, studying him. When she spoke her voice sounded both amused and puzzled. "What we had 'going on' was a drink."

"I believe Grace called it a celebration."

"She also called it an affair; it was neither. And Grace knew about it before they left Chicago."

"So if it wasn't a celebration and it wasn't an affair, exactly what was it?"

"Kind of nosy, aren't you?" she asked pointedly.

With a nod he answered, "I'm a D.A. 'Nosy' is in my job description. And I happen to be very good at it."

Morgan's smile faded slightly and she was quiet a moment before answering. "Yesterday was the seventeenth anniversary of the resolution of a difficult case Drew and I were involved in. Even though we were on opposite sides of the courtroom, the outcome was a relief for us both. When I still lived in Chicago we would meet for a drink every year on that date. Since I moved here we missed the last few years. This year, things worked out so that we could get together again."

McCoy glanced at her. "Now I'm jealous. You don't commemorate an anniversary of any sort with me."

"I'll tell you what," she suggested, "in a few months, when the anniversary of Peter's acquittal rolls around, I'll buy you a drink. Then you won't have to be jealous anymore."

"It's a deal," he agreed with a satisfied smile.

"My turn to be nosy," Morgan decided. "Why didn't you come in and find us when you brought Grace back to the hotel last night, instead of dropping her off at the door?"

"Dropping her off was her idea. She said that way she could blame standing you up on me."

"Well, she didn't. She really didn't offer any explanation. All she said was that the two of you had started talking and lost track of time. What did you find to talk about for nearly three hours, anyway?"

"Oh, this and that," McCoy replied vaguely. "We talked about working in the D.A.'s office, and about our favorite places in Chicago. And about you..." He glanced over at her. "...Peaches."

Morgan's head snapped around. "Whoa! Let's get one thing straight right now, _Mister_ McCoy! That is a nickname I picked up in Chicago and purposely left behind when I moved here. You are not allowed to use it or to tell anyone else about it. Understand?"

McCoy chuckled at her anticipated reaction. "On one condition: You tell me how you got it."

"If I tell you, do I have your word that you won't ever call me by that name or mention it to anyone else?"

He nodded. "You have my word."

"I'm going to hold you to that," she vowed, then explained, "When I first moved to Chicago and started working in the police station, I had a pretty good Southern drawl. It earned me quite a bit of teasing and one of the guys started calling me 'Georgia Peach'. I explained in no uncertain terms that Texas is not Georgia, but the more I protested the more fun it became for him. Somewhere along the way the 'Georgia' got dropped and people started calling me 'Peaches'. When I became a lawyer and started trying criminal cases, one of the detectives referred to me by that name in front of Drew and he picked up on it. I guess it sort of stuck. Anyway, it certainly isn't a nickname I would've chosen for myself and I was glad to be rid of it when I left Chicago."

"Well I like it. I think it suits you."

"Jack..." she said warningly, "you promised."

He laughed again. "I'll keep my end of the bargain." He looked over at her. "But it does suit you."

***"I'd still like to know which one of you paid for dinner. That was supposed to be my contribution to the evening," Compton stated, surveying the members of their group as they stood on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.

"You and Grace are guests," Morgan insisted. "You aren't allowed to pay when you're visiting us."

Fairchild added, "Tell you what: Next time we're on your home turf, the honor will be all yours."

Compton nodded. "You can each consider yourselves invited, anytime you like. Thank you, from both of us. The play and dinner were wonderful. And the company was superb."

After good-byes were said, the Fairchilds left the other two couples alone. McCoy handed the valet ticket to the parking attendant and they waited for his car to be retrieved.

"My feet are killing me," Grace complained. "I shouldn't have worn heels."

Compton gave Morgan a sideways look and asked casually, "Did you ever tell Jack about the time you tripped in court?"

Morgan turned to face him, crossing her arms. "Now why do you want to go and start trouble? We've had a perfectly enjoyable evening. Is it really necessary to bring up someone's most embarrassing moments?"

McCoy regarded Compton gleefully. "She tripped in court?"

With a groan, Morgan turned her back on the two.

"It was the first case she tried on her own, too," Compton explained. "She got up to question a witness and tripped over her own feet. She recovered pretty well, but it was priceless."

While Compton shared a laugh with his wife and McCoy, Morgan added, "In my whole life, no one has ever called me 'graceful'. I learned a valuable lesson that day: Always wear flats. I've never worn heels since. I no longer even own a pair."

McCoy smiled down at her. "You shouldn't feel too bad. I once prosecuted a defendant whose attorney gave his entire opening statement with his fly open. The jury held it together for a while, but it finally got to be too much for them. After a very persuasive argument from said attorney, the judge actually declared a mistrial and we started over with a new jury a few days later."

Morgan laughed. "Now I don't feel so bad. That story has to top the most embarrassing moments list."

As the attendant drove up with his car, McCoy sighed to himself. The only word that came to his mind to describe Morgan that evening was "sparkling". She had been happy and relaxed, and with each smile he had found himself looking forward to the next. He also felt unusually pleased with himself when he was the cause of her smile.

Driving to the Compton's hotel, the conversation turned to current cases the attorneys were handling. Morgan briefly explained the details of the Grayson case, and McCoy outlined the Armstrong trial for them.

When it was Compton's turn he said, "I'm about to start a trial against a DUI defendant. He plowed through a stoplight at 3:00 in the morning and rammed the car of an elderly couple. They were on their way to the hospital because the old man was having chest pains. He died while the paramedics were working on him. The defense is trying to argue that the cause of death was a heart attack and the defendant isn't culpable. My position is that the accident caused the heart attack to be fatal."

"How far from the hospital did it occur?" McCoy asked.

"Six or seven miles. According to the M.E. the unnatural event of the accident accelerated the heart attack, and the delay getting to the hospital made a difference. If he had gotten to the hospital sooner, and hadn't suffered the shock of the accident, he would've made it."

"Sounds like a solid case," McCoy nodded.

"How old is the defendant?" Morgan asked.

"I don't know. Late thirty's, early forty's maybe. Why?"

"Does he have kids?"

"Yes, I think he has two or three."

"Did it ever occur to you to compare the possible benefit to society of locking this man up for most of the rest of his life, to the harm it will do his children to live without a father?" she asked.

Compton huffed out a breath. "So we're not supposed to hold people responsible for the crimes they commit simply because they have children?"

"I didn't say that," Morgan argued. "But would it kill you to take into consideration the effect that sending this guy to prison for years is going to have on those he leaves behind? Couldn't a more reasonable sentence, along with rehabilitation and restitution, be considered as an alternative?"

"An innocent victim is dead and his widow was left behind. What about them?" McCoy interjected. "Don't they deserve justice? And what restitution would you suggest to equal the life that he took?"

"Can the M.E. really give a one hundred percent guarantee that the old man would've lived had it not been for the accident?"

"No one can give a one hundred percent guarantee in this world," Compton admitted. "He could've later died from choking on hospital food! The point is, the M.E. thinks the delay made a difference in the heart attack, and that's all I need to prosecute and win the case."

"And we all know that winning is the single most important thing in life!" Morgan snapped.

Silence filled the car for several minutes. Morgan finally turned to look over her shoulder. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to spoil the evening by arguing. I know you have to call them as you see them."

Compton reached forward and patted her shoulder. "That's okay. This certainly isn't the first argument we've ever had over opposing viewpoints and I doubt it will be our last. In fact, sometimes I miss our arguments."

"You know how he loves a good fight," his wife added.

Compton slipped his arm around her shoulders. "I know better than to fight with Grace, so now I'm left with only my associate, who is too easily swayed to my point of view. Things aren't the same since you left."

"Well I'm glad to know that I was useful for something," Morgan retorted more amiably.

When they reached the hotel, Morgan and McCoy got out only long enough to say good-bye, then continued on toward her apartment. They drove in silence for a good part of the way.

McCoy was irritated. The evening wasn't ending the way he had hoped. But more than that, he had really wanted to speak his mind during the argument between Compton and Morgan. Given the company, though, he had held his tongue. And after all, he reasoned, Morgan had finally apologized.

He was still irritated.

Beside him, he heard a sigh. Turning from looking out of the window, Morgan noted, "You've been unusually quiet. Did you enjoy the evening?"

He took a moment before answering slowly, "Yes, I did. But I am a little upset about the discussion you had with Drew."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Morgan's head drop back until it hit the headrest with a muffled thump. "Oh, no! I'm sorry, Jack; I wasn't thinking. I should've steered the conversation toward a less painful subject."

"I can handle the subject," he assured her. Biting his lip, he wondered if he should let it drop or forge ahead. His irritation won out, although he did choose his words carefully. "It was your comments that I'm having some difficulty with. I don't see how you can arbitrarily defend someone whose irresponsible and reckless behavior caused the death of an innocent person. Or were you only playing devil's advocate?"

"I never say anything just for the sake of argument," Morgan answered with a hint of annoyance. "I meant every word."

Despite his feelings to the contrary, McCoy kept his voice calm and neutral. "Well maybe your view would be different if you had experienced the death of a loved one at the hands of someone who had chosen to get behind the wheel after having too much to drink."

"And what makes you think I haven't had that experience, with _multiple_ loved ones, as a matter of fact?" she snapped.

He glanced at her quickly but couldn't read her expression in the dim light. As he turned his attention back to the street, he frowned in confusion and thought back to when he had first told her about Claire. She hadn't mentioned anything then. They had been discussing her family…

That couldn't be it, he thought. Surely she would've told him.

McCoy looked over to find Morgan staring out of the window again. At her continued silence, he sighed. _Consider the source_, he told himself.

"Calea, are you referring to your family?" he asked quietly. "Was a drunk driver responsible for the accident that took their lives?"

She didn't turn to look at him as she spoke. "Not every situation is a study in black and white. Sometimes people, prosecutors in particular, forget that there are at least two sides to every story. There are a lot of factors to consider when passing judgement and condemning someone."

"There's nothing wrong with my view of drunk drivers," McCoy insisted. "Whatever their excuse may be, they don't deserve any more consideration than anyone else who willfully harms another. They should have to pay for their crimes like every other criminal. And given your experience, you of all people should understand."

"Understand what? A need to see all drunk drivers condemned and punished simply because a single one was responsible for my personal loss? That isn't justice, that's revenge!"

He shook his head. "It isn't revenge to require someone to be held accountable for their actions! People equate drinking and driving with a social problem. Judges hand down harsher sentences for traffic tickets than they do for D.U.I.'s. Those responsible need to be forced to see the criminality of getting behind the wheel while under the influence of alcohol!"

"Holding someone accountable doesn't always require punishing them to the full extent of the law! I'm not saying they shouldn't be punished at all, but each case needs to be examined individually to do what's best for _everyone_ concerned. Despite my personal experience, I'm capable of looking at things from both sides of the courtroom!"

"Oh, I see!" he replied angrily. "Becoming a defense attorney gave you some sort of special ability to overlook the pain and suffering experienced by those left in the wake of an intoxicated killer!"

"Being a defense attorney has little to do with it! I can see both sides of the issue because the drunk driver who killed my family was my father, Jack! And as a result of the personal injury suit filed by the other parties involved against my father's estate, I lost the house I had lived in all my life, and property that had been in my family for generations! In the majority of D.U.I. cases, the people who are directly involved in the accident aren't the only victims!"

McCoy was completely taken aback. Her revelation wasn't something he had expected and for a few moments he was at a loss as to how to respond. He finally said the only thing he could think of to say.

"I'm sorry."

In the silence that continued for the remainder of the drive, he thought about what she had said. In the months that followed Claire's death he had been incensed at the driver responsible. And he had turned to alcohol as a solace for his overwhelming, oftentimes conflicting feelings. He had usually had sense enough not to drive after doing so, but there had been occasions when he was sure his decision to drive himself home had been questionable. It had taken some major introspection to realize that he could quite easily have found himself in the same situation as others who also thought they were sober enough to drive. Others, like Claire's killer - or Morgan's father.

When they reached their destination, McCoy pulled into the visitor parking area and turned off the car. Instead of opening the door immediately, he sat trying to figure out what to say.

Saving him the trouble, Morgan turned to him. There was sadness in her voice as she said, "You don't have to come in with me. It's been a long day and I'm sure you would like to go home. Thank you for going with me tonight, and for driving. I enjoyed the evening."

As she started to open the door, McCoy caught her by the arm. She looked at him questioningly.

"Calea, will you go for a walk with me?"

As she studied him, he could see the hesitation in her eyes. "It's kind of late, Jack."

"It isn't that late. Come on; just a short walk."

With a reluctant nod she finally relented. They left the car and began to walk down the sidewalk, past her building.

"You know, you could've mentioned something about your family the first time I came to your apartment, when I told you that I had lost someone to a drunk driver," he suggested gently.

"I didn't know you very well then and, as you know, I'm not very good at sharing personal things. And of all the subjects in my life that I would rather avoid, my father is at the very top of the list," she confessed.

"I suppose I can understand that," he admitted dryly. After pausing for a few seconds he asked, "Will you tell me how it happened?"

Morgan shoved her hands deeper into the pockets of her coat and began to chew the inside of her lip. "I'd rather not. It's a very unpleasant memory and I'm not comfortable talking about it. Given your experience, I'm also not sure you need to hear it any more than I need to share it."

He stopped on the sidewalk and waited until she had done the same. Looking into her eyes, he could see the fear.

"I think it may do us both some good."

She gave him a puzzled look. "What makes you say that?"

McCoy reached out and brushed a few strands of hair from her forehead. "Maybe this is another of those situations where facing your past will turn out to be for the best. And maybe sharing it will help me with mine, too. I thought I had made my peace with what happened a long time ago, but then something like the discussion tonight comes up, and I'm not so sure. If you share your experience with me, maybe we can find a way to help each other."

She dropped her focus to the ground, avoiding his intense eyes. After a moment she turned and continued walking. He fell into step beside her, unsure whether she would comply or not.

When she did finally begin, her voice was flat and emotionless. "My father wanted to go fishing so we drove to the coast for the day. He had a lot to drink, as he did every weekend. At around 6:00 we could see thunderstorms beginning to form out over the Gulf, so my dad decided we should head home. It was a two hour drive in good weather, more when it rained. The rain in Texas comes down so hard, sometimes you can't see the road in front of you. My mom tried to talk him into letting her drive, but he wouldn't. He never did. It was just one of those things; wives never drove when their husbands were in the car. We had driven about an hour when the first storm caught up with us."

When she paused for a breath, McCoy swallowed hard. "You were in the car when it happened?"

Without looking at him, she nodded. "There were no laws at the time and my parents didn't require it, but I almost always wore my seatbelt when my dad was driving. Even when I was only six or seven I figured they had to be there for a reason, and his driving when he had been drinking was scary. You know how the older cars had a hump in the middle of the floorboard of the back seat?" At his nod she told him, "That was my spot. I would buckle my seatbelt, then loosen it as far as I could and lean on the front seat. From there I would watch the road for my dad. If he drove too far onto the shoulder or crossed the middle line, I would tell him. I also talked, non-stop, to keep him awake. I would talk about my cats and dogs, or the trees, or the grass on the side of the road; anything to help keep him alert." She took an uneven breath. "That morning we had gotten up early to be at the bay by sunrise, so my mom and my brother fell asleep on the way home. But I could never sleep when my father was driving, no matter how tired I was."

Their walk had brought them to an intersection. Another couple was also approaching the crosswalk, so Morgan remained silent as they waited to cross the street.

When McCoy took his hand from his pocket to push the button for the pedestrian crossing light, he realized that it had been clenched into a fist, as was his other. He could feel the tightness in his stomach and tension in the back of his neck. Part of him wanted to tell her to stop, that he couldn't listen to any more. Images and memories flooded his mind, things he didn't want to remember. Many times he had thought about Claire's last moments. The coroner's report stated that she had died on impact. Had she seen it coming? Or had she been blissfully unaware? He had always hoped the latter, and feared the former. He had often wondered if Briscoe could answer that question, but had never even entertained the idea of asking him. Some things were better left unknown. But as difficult as it was to listen to Morgan's story, he knew that it had to be even more difficult for her to share it - and that he needed to hear it. If he wanted to know more about her, about what made her the person that she was, this undoubtedly was a huge part.

After the light changed and they had crossed the street, McCoy led the way in a different direction than the other couple had taken. As they walked, he waited quietly for Morgan to begin again.

"Most of the highways in Texas at that time were single lanes, with a narrow shoulder and a deep ditch on either side. My father had instilled a healthy fear of those ditches in us. Many times he had told us that if you ever hit one going very fast, the car would flip over. The speed limit was 70 then, and the night it happened he was going pretty close to that despite the conditions. He had already veered off onto the shoulder a couple of times, so I was watching the road closely. When he started to go off again, I told him. When he didn't respond, I grabbed his shoulder and shook it. We were partially off of the pavement by the time he realized it. He overreacted and jerked the steering wheel. The car started to fishtail, then skid. We crossed the line into the on-coming traffic. There was no way the other car could stop. It struck our car on the driver's side and knocked us back into our lane, sort of crossways. The driver of a truck that had been behind us slammed on his brakes, but with the rain he couldn't stop in time either. The truck hit mostly on the front passenger's side."

When Morgan didn't continue for several seconds, McCoy looked up from the sidewalk. Her eyes were focused straight ahead and he could see that she was trembling. He was sure it wasn't from the cold. His first thought was to reach for her and wrap her in his arms, to offer comfort. But since he wasn't at all sure how she would respond, instead he reached for her arm and pulled her hand from her pocket. When she looked at him, he smiled slightly, then tucked both her hand and his into the roomy pocket of his jacket. He could feel her hand shaking even with his wrapped around it.

They walked in silence for a few more seconds before she continued in a shaky voice.

"The man and his wife in the first car that hit us died. Their three children were in the back seat. They were all injured but survived. My brother was sitting beside me, behind the driver's seat. He and my dad were killed instantly. If I hadn't been wearing a seatbelt I would've been killed too. Since it was loose I ended up close to the back door on the passenger's side. The truck that hit us crunched it in, so I was trapped in a pretty tight space. I couldn't move and my whole body hurt. Everything became very quiet afterwards and I remember calling out to my mom. I could hear her breathing, but her breath was sort of rattling. After a few minutes there were people shouting from outside and someone tried to pry open the door I was near. I kept focusing on my mom's breathing, trying to be as quiet as possible so I could hear it. Then after a while, it just stopped. I didn't really care if they got me out of the car or not after that."

Inside his coat pocket, McCoy squeezed her hand. He wanted to say something, anything, but couldn't seem to find his voice behind the tightness in his throat. In his mind he could see the little girl from a picture he had once found inside Morgan's desk, huddled inside a wrecked car, life as she knew it shattered.

"I was in the hospital for two weeks." Morgan's voice became more unsteady. "I missed the funerals. I tried to get my grandparents to postpone them until I was well enough to go but they wouldn't even consider it. It made me angry that they couldn't see how important it was to me. I felt like I never really had the chance to say good-bye."

Morgan grew quiet and McCoy knew she was fighting back tears. Trying to think of a way to offer comfort, he said gently, "I'm sure your parents and brother understood and didn't hold it against you. They must be proud, watching you all these years, seeing how you turned out."

She shook her head sadly. "I'm not one of those people who believes that people have an immortal soul. I never felt that my family was suddenly hovering somewhere above, watching over me. They were just gone, leaving holes in my life where they used to be."

He glanced sideways with a frown, unsure of how to answer, but decided that it wasn't the time for a theological debate. The bright glow from a coffee shop a few yards up the sidewalk beckoned to him. He continued to head toward it, finally coming to a stop outside of the door.

"Why don't we go inside and have something warm to drink?" he suggested.

She started to pull her hand from his. "This isn't something I can sit down in a room with other people and discuss, Jack! It's too difficult!"

"Okay," he agreed quickly, refusing to release her hand. "It was only a suggestion. I thought you might be getting cold."

"I'm fine. It isn't that cold out tonight."

"You're shivering," he pointed out.

When Morgan looked away and tried to tug her hand from his again, McCoy held it firmly and resumed walking, passing the coffee shop and pulling her gently along with him.

"It's all right," he offered reassuringly. "We'll keep walking." When she followed willingly, he added, "I guess I understand now why there's a cabinet full of liquor in your kitchen that you never touch."

She nodded slowly. "What happened with my father made me so angry, I never even had a desire to try it. Maybe I was worried that once I started, I wouldn't be able to stop. Some people say alcoholism is caused by a genetic defect and can be inherited. I don't know if that's true, but I never wanted to risk it."

"I've heard that as well. I'm not sure if I believe it either, but I suppose there could be some truth to it. You mentioned a personal injury suit. Who filed against your parent's estate?"

"The brother and sister-in-law of the man who was killed. They became guardians to the children and filed the suit on their behalf a few weeks after the accident. My grandparents hired Emerson Kilgore, an old family law attorney. He thought the case would be simply a matter of character witnesses. Besides my grandparents and me, he brought in many of the people my dad had worked with over the years. They told the jury what a great guy he had been. I remember feeling so jealous of those people. They were all so sincere in their praise. That they knew a side of my dad he had kept hidden from his immediate family seemed very unfair to me. The difference was he couldn't drink on the job. They knew a sober, kind-hearted, generous man. But he worked thirty miles from home at an oil refinery, and by the time he had made the drive back every day, he had usually finished four or five beers and at least a couple of shots of whiskey. And he didn't stop once he was home. That was the person we knew: the unpredictable, brooding man who only wanted to be alone with his alcohol."

McCoy could feel the tension in Morgan's arm and adjusted his slightly, pulling her a little closer toward him.

"If so many people testified on behalf of your father, why did you lose so much?"

The anger that had crept into her voice subsided, to be replaced by remorse. "Once Mr. Kilgore had paraded everyone else through, he put on the person whom he considered to be his ace in the hole. He coached me on what to say and actually suggested that I should cry on the stand. I guess he thought that the sight of a frightened child would garner enough sympathy to minimize the other parties' suit. But I couldn't do what he wanted. When he asked me what kind of father my dad had been, I said some things I shouldn't have. Mr. Kilgore tried to cover it over by alluding to the fact that I was still traumatized by the accident, but the attorney for the other side saw how angry I was at my father and he used it to his advantage. He asked questions that got him even more than he could've possibly hoped for. The last question he asked me was whether I thought my dad was responsible for the deaths of my mother, my brother, and the other couple. In the middle of Mr. Kilgore's objection, I answered 'yes', although I knew I was supposed to wait. Even though the judge had the question and my response stricken, I guess the jury agreed with me. The plaintiff's attorney made it clear that I was going to be well cared for by my grandparents, so they awarded almost all of the estate to the other couple's children."

"It wasn't your fault," McCoy observed. "You were only twelve years old."

"Maybe, but I knew how disappointed my grandparents were in me. After all, it was their son I had maligned in front of a good portion of the population, in a fairly small community. I wasn't all that close to them before the accident, and things were very strained afterwards. They took good care of me materially but I always wondered if they resented it. I never really felt like I belonged in their home. I had skipped a couple of grades in the small country school I had started out in, and that combined with summer school got me a high school diploma when I was only fifteen. I moved in with some friends of our family afterwards so I could attend college in Houston. It was almost a relief to leave my grandparent's house. Four years later, I moved across the country to attend law school."

McCoy shook his head in confusion. "Given everything that happened, I can understand perfectly why you were angry with your father. What I can't understand is how you can now argue in defense of someone like him, someone who caused the death of, and ruined, others' lives. It seems to me that becoming a prosecuting attorney in order to put people like that away would've been a more logical career choice for you."

"It took a long time for the anger to even begin to subside. Then, after my grandparents died, I was going through some of their belongings. In a box of things they had taken from my parent's house, I found a journal that my mother had written. She didn't write consistently once she had kids, but there were a lot of entries for the first few years she and my dad were married. In reading them, I learned that my dad had started drinking before he was even a teenager. He used to help his father with the crops as a boy, and when they came in from working, they had a shot of whiskey. It was just a normal, daily occurrence. He was an alcoholic long before he was old enough to make an informed choice. Learning that and other things about him made me start to see things in a different light. Sometimes a person's path is chosen for them by someone else, just as you once told me you felt your father had chosen yours. Back when my dad started drinking, no one really knew the dangers, not even his parents. I don't feel that excused all of his culpability, but it certainly was a mitigating factor. And as for my choice of professions, I became a defense attorney in order to help people who find themselves on the wrong side of the law, for whatever reason. I knew how it felt to be misrepresented and somewhat taken advantage of. I wanted to give other people in similar situations the kind of representation that everyone is entitled to, whatever their mistakes may be. It became important to me to help prevent someone else from becoming a victim of the system."

He came to a stop on the sidewalk and turned to face Morgan. Giving her a little smile he suggested, "You mean you didn't become a lawyer because of Perry Mason, like you told me when I first asked you about that?"

The sadness in her eyes remained as she regarded him, but he gradually saw a hint of a smile appear on her face. "He may not have been the sole reason, but he definitely had a place in my decision."

McCoy felt a sudden wave of closeness. He reached out and brushed her hair from her forehead again, resisting an impulse to draw her to him. Glancing at their surroundings, he saw that his strategic turns while they were walking had brought them close to where they had started, so that they weren't far from her building. "Are you ready to go back now?"

With a nod, she turned with him. Within his pocket he was sure that he felt her hand actually clutching his during the walk back. He quickened the pace slightly, eager to return to her place so that they could be alone.

When they reached their destination he opened the door to the lobby and walked in with her. But when he began to lead the way to the elevator, she stopped and pulled her hand from his pocket. Turning to face her, he gave her a puzzled look.

"Now it really is late," she noted softly. "You should be on your way home."

He gave her a smile. "I have some time before my curfew expires. I'll walk you up."

Morgan studied him intently, searching his eyes. He wasn't sure what she was looking for, but she definitely seemed suddenly uncomfortable.

"That's okay. I'll go up by myself. Thanks again for going with me tonight and for listening. I hope I didn't ruin your evening by dragging up a lot of unpleasant memories."

"You didn't," he assured her. "I'm glad you told me about it all. I know it wasn't easy. I want you to know that anytime you need an ear, or a shoulder, I'm available."

She nodded slowly. "I'll try to remember that." Taking a step back she said, "I'll see you Monday, Jack. Enjoy the rest of your weekend."

"Good-night, Calea. When you see them tomorrow, please tell the Comptons again how much I enjoyed the evening."

Morgan smiled and nodded once more before turning toward the elevator.

***On the drive home, McCoy's head was filled with a disarray of thoughts. He didn't understand how Morgan could go from seeming perfectly relaxed and at ease with him, to nervous and uncomfortable in the blink of an eye. And he didn't know why she had been reluctant to allow him to accompany her up to her apartment; it wouldn't have been the first time he had done so. In spite of the tragic story she had shared and the feelings it had provoked, he was glad she had confided in him. But just when he had felt that she finally trusted and felt comfortable with him, she had backed away once more. He wondered if he would ever really win her trust.

When he arrived home he undressed and fell into bed. But despite the late hour he found that sleep eluded him. In his mind, he went over every detail of what Morgan had told him. He could only imagine what he would've done if he had been called upon to tell the world what he thought of his own father when he had been twelve. It certainly wouldn't have been easy to say anything good. And it would've been hard to live with himself if he had been forced to tell the truth. His thoughts also turned to Claire. He had spent a good deal of time in the beginning thinking about how he could've prevented the accident, how if he had waited for her, she would've been driving on a different street that night. It had been difficult enough to lose her. He wondered how he would've felt if he had been the one in the accident with her instead of Briscoe, to stand helplessly by while her life faded away...

It was a long time before the peacefulness of sleep overtook him that night.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Morgan entered the lobby of the Regency Hotel and glanced around. Spotting a familiar figure, she headed for a cozy sitting area with plush, high-backed chairs covered in rich red and gold fabrics.

"You look like something the cat dragged in, Peaches," Grace Compton greeted her.

Sinking into a chair across from the other woman, Morgan confessed, "I'm a little tired. I didn't sleep well last night."

"Drew went to get the luggage and check out. We should be ready to leave shortly."

"That's fine. I'm not in any rush. We have most of the day."

"What are we going to do today, anyway? We never made any firm plans last night."

"I was thinking about taking you to a little hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant for lunch. It's the best Tex-Mex I've found since moving here. I still haven't found a place that makes decent tamales, but everything else is great there. Afterwards, we can do whatever you like. If you haven't had enough sight-seeing we can take a tour, or we can hang out at my place this afternoon and visit. It's up to you."

"Well, if it's up to me, I'll choose to hang out at your place. I could use a quiet afternoon and you look like you could use some rest as well. Besides, you and I haven't had much of a chance to talk since we arrived."

"And whose fault is that?" Morgan asked, crossing her arms and trying to appear stern. "If you and Jack hadn't ditched us Friday night, we would've had some time to catch up."

A quick smile came to her face. "You can't blame me for that. Your Jack is quite a character. I had a wonderful time with him."

"By no stretch of the imagination could he be considered as _my_ Jack," Morgan corrected her firmly.

"By whose choice? I know it wouldn't be his."

"Don't start with me, Grace," she warned with a hint of annoyance. "Every time we talk on the phone, we have this same conversation about what I'm doing with my personal life. You even have Drew grilling me now. Jack and I are just friends and that's the way we both want it. I don't have the time or energy to devote to anything more complicated, and he's as busy as I am."

"If something is important enough, you make time for it. I think your busy schedule has little to do with it. I think you're just afraid to get involved with anyone again."

Morgan shifted in the chair. "Analyzing my neurosis is not on the agenda for today. Can we please change the subject?"

With a nod she agreed, "Okay. Let's change the subject. What did you and Jack do after you left us last night?"

"I could be mistaken, but I think this is the same subject, only thinly disguised as another," Morgan observed dryly.

"You said you didn't want to talk about your neurosis. What does last night have to do with that?"

After studying her friend for a few seconds, Morgan admitted cautiously, "Nothing, I guess."

"Well? What did you do?"

Morgan shrugged. "Not much. He drove me back to my place, we went for a walk and talked for a while, then he went home."

"How late did he stay at your place?"

"He didn't stay at my place. We went for the walk before even going inside the building, and he left as soon as we returned."

"He didn't even see you to your apartment?"

"No. It was late and he wanted to go home."

"In other words, you didn't invite him in," she concluded.

"Same subject, different hat," Morgan nodded.

"Did he ask to come in?"

"Not specifically," Morgan answered, annoyance seeping back into her voice. "But, yes, it was my decision for him to leave me at the door. Satisfied?"

Grace shook her head. "He's intelligent, charming, he has a wonderful sense of humor, not to mention the fact that he's tall, dark, and handsome. What else are you waiting for?"

"I'm not waiting for someone better to come along," Morgan insisted, her annoyance growing. "The point is, I'm not waiting for _anyone_ to come along. The last thing I need in my life is complication!"

"Some complications are worth the effort." She leaned forward. "Do you want to know what Jack and I talked about on Friday?"

"Actually, I've been trying _not_ to think about that. After having him refer to me as 'Peaches' on Saturday, I don't even want to imagine what other conversations the two of you had."

She reached out and patted Morgan's knee affectionately. "Now you know I love you, Honey. I'd never tell anyone something truly embarrassing about you."

"Your idea of embarrassing isn't quite the same as everyone else's," Morgan noted good-naturedly, her irritation fading. "Look, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but it isn't necessary. I've never been more content with my life than I am right now. Jack has been a very good friend to me and I value that friendship, but we're both satisfied with things as they are. We agreed a long time ago to keep the relationship plutonic. Believe me, he's not interested in anything more, either."

"Oh I think I can safely say you're wrong about that, Peaches. Although I wasn't supposed to notice, he spent almost the entire three hours we were together the other night skillfully steering the conversation to you. You can tell yourself what you like, but I know what I saw and heard."

Morgan stood up abruptly. "I'm going to go see what's keeping Drew."

Grace reached out and caught her by the hand before she could walk away. Looking up at her, she said, "Not every man is like Frank Tyler. Don't be afraid to take a chance again."

Compton appeared from around the corner, smiling broadly as he approached them. "I see our transportation has arrived. We're ready to leave when you are."

"I'll bring the car to the front door," Morgan replied quietly, stepping around him and walking away.

His smile quickly became a puzzled frown as he watched her head for the exit. Turning to his wife he asked, "What did you say to her, Grace?"


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

"Morning, Abbie," McCoy said as Carmichael passed the receptionist's desk.

She walked past without acknowledging, a frown of concentration on her face.

"Abbie?"

Looking over her shoulder, she replied distractedly, "Oh. Hi. I didn't see you."

McCoy joined her as they continued down the hallway. "Something wrong? You seem a little preoccupied."

Carmichael entered her office and set her briefcase on the desk. "I was just thinking about my case."

"Anything I can help with?" he asked, settling into the overstuffed chair across from her desk.

After hanging her coat, she sat down and sighed. "I'm almost finished presenting my witnesses and I don't feel I've done enough to establish that Sara Grayson planned her husband's death, rather than acting on the spur of the moment with self-defense in mind. I still have the lawyer who drew up the guardianship agreement to put on, but I don't think it's going to be enough. I need a strong finish that's going to stick in the jurors' minds even after Calea puts on her version of the facts."

"Jurors do sometimes have short attention spans. By the time the defense finishes putting on their case, they've forgotten a lot of what the prosecution had to say," he noted. "Do you have anything in mind?"

Carmichael rolled a pencil back and forth on her desk absentmindedly. "Yesterday I went to see the Grayson's daughter, Alissa, to ask her about the day of the murder."

"I thought you said that Calea and the mother wouldn't allow you to speak with the children."

"I didn't ask Calea or the mother. I asked and received permission from the person who now has legal custody of the children, thanks to the guardianship papers Sara Grayson signed," Carmichael explained. "I've decided to put Alissa on the stand and have her explain the things that her mother did immediately before and after killing Mitchell."

McCoy's eyebrows arched in surprise. "Don't you think that's kind of risky? If the mother really was being abused, the girl could get up there and convince the jury that her father got what he deserved."

"I know kids don't make reliable witnesses, and I know they tend to cover for their parents. But I spent some time talking with her and what she had to say will help my case. I think I can get what I need out of her."

"What you get out of her isn't what should be concerning you," he reminded her. "On cross, Calea may drag all sorts of horror stories from the daughter. It's what _she_ gets the girl to say that you should be worried about."

Shaking her head, Carmichael stated confidently, "Calea won't open that can of worms. She feels very strongly about kids testifying against their parents. She won't ask Alissa anything about the specifics of the Grayson's relationship. The most she will cross her on is what I ask, about the night of the murder."

Thinking back to what he had learned that weekend, McCoy wondered if Carmichael knew the story behind Morgan's position. "What makes you so sure that she won't ask about the abuse?"

"I know Calea. She told me once that she had to testify in a suit brought against her parents and doesn't think any child should be put in that situation. She won't ask Alissa any questions about her father."

He knew she was probably right. But knowing the background behind Morgan's decision made what Carmichael was proposing seem very unfair. "I think you're taking a pretty big chance. Whatever her personal feelings, Calea is going to do what's necessary to diligently represent her client. The mother could even insist that she ask the daughter specific questions. Although they've indicated that they won't put any of the children on, I doubt they will pass up the opportunity to corroborate the mother's claim if you do so. You could be providing them with the means to win the case."

"And maybe the reason they don't want to put any of the children on the stand is because the children have nothing to say that the defense can use," Carmichael insisted. "Maybe there was no abuse. The mother could be making the whole thing up. Alissa didn't say anything to me about her father mistreating her mother when I spoke with her."

McCoy grew thoughtful. "Given everything you've seen and heard to this point, do you think Sara Grayson was abused?"

Carmichael shrugged. "I think the word 'abuse' is overused. It's been applied to everything from beating someone to death, to raising a voice in the heat of anger. And whether I believe Sara lived in an abusive situation or not is immaterial. Mitchell Grayson may not have deserved sainthood, but he also didn't deserve to be stabbed to death while he slept. Whatever her circumstances, Sara had other options."

Standing up, he told her, "You're taking a big risk putting the girl on, Abbie. I hope it doesn't blow up in your face."

Grabbing her briefcase, Carmichael stalked over to retrieve her coat. "Yet another vote of confidence! Thanks, Jack! Given how difficult this decision was to make, I really needed that!"

Turning around at the door, McCoy retorted indignantly, "I'm not questioning your abilities, only your judgement! You know why Calea feels so strongly about children taking the stand against their parents. You're using something you know about her personal life against her, and I don't think that's right!"

"Aren't you the one who told me to use what I know about my opponent to my advantage?" she asked defensively.

He shook his head. "This is different! You're forcing her in between a rock and a hard place with this witness, based on information that she shared with you in confidence. At least I'm sure _she_ thought it was in confidence!"

"Would you rather I lose the case? I thought winning was the object of the game!" Carmichael pointed out angrily.

McCoy regarded her for a moment, then said quietly, "Take it from someone who's been there, sometimes the stakes are too high. You stand to lose a lot more than a case here."

She took a deep breath and let it out wearily. Looking up at him, she admitted, "I know what I could lose. Why do you think the decision was such a hard one to make?"

Reading the conflict in her eyes, he nodded slowly. "I hope things work out." As Carmichael prepared to follow him out, carrying her coat and briefcase, he asked, "Leaving already? I thought you didn't start until 9:00."

"I left the notice to add Alissa to my witness list with security at Calea's office yesterday. She usually stops by there before court every morning. I thought I'd wait for it to hit the fan down at the court building; makes it easier for her to find me."

McCoy gave her a half smile. "Better take an umbrella. You're going to need it!"

***Morgan's quick footsteps rang out in the almost empty courtroom. Dropping her briefcase with a thud onto the table opposite where Carmichael was sitting, she addressed her angrily.

"What about the words 'off limits' do you not understand? I made it clear to you that my client would not give her permission for you to speak with her children!"

Carmichael sat back and regarded her calmly. "I didn't need your client's approval. I received permission from Sandy Hamilton, the woman your client appointed as legal guardian of her children."

"Sara didn't sign over her rights as parent! The agreement between her and Sandy was a temporary one. It deals specifically with the care of her children in the event of her death or incapacitation. She is still the children's mother, and as such has the right to decide what's in their best interest!"

"Sara is in jail," Carmichael reminded her. "She can't take care of her children at present. I was within my legal right to question Alissa with the guardian's permission."

"You flexed your prosecutorial muscle and coerced Sandy into giving her permission!" Morgan accused. "She didn't feel that she had a choice!"

"I didn't coerce anyone!" Carmichael countered. "Sandy Hamilton gave consent of her own volition."

"Save that speech for a stranger, Abbie! I know you better than that!" She turned to snatch a paper from her briefcase. Tossing it onto the polished table in front of Carmichael, she added, "This is my motion to suppress. I'm going to prevent you from calling Alissa as a witness and from using anything she already said to you. We meet with Judge Yee in thirty minutes."

Carmichael unfolded the paper and scanned it as Morgan stalked from the courtroom. Shaking her head, she refolded the blue coversheet. She had a feeling things were going to get worse before they got better.

***Judge Yee sat behind her desk, studying the document in her hand. "The agreement does specify that it is valid only on a temporary basis, until more permanent arrangements could be made with Mrs. Grayson's family, in the event of her death or permanent incapacitation." She laid the paper on her desk and removed her glasses. "But I have to agree with Ms. Carmichael. At this time, Mrs. Grayson is essentially incapacitated where her children are concerned. She isn't capable of caring out her duties as parent from prison. As far as I can see, Mrs. Hamilton does in fact have legal guardianship of the children, as per the contract. Her permission to question the minor was all that Ms. Carmichael needed."

"Your Honor, the wishes of the girl's mother have to take precedence here," Morgan argued. "Mrs. Grayson is extremely concerned about the effect that testifying will have on the emotional well-being of her child!"

"I'm sorry, but your client is the one who made the custody arrangements. I'm simply enforcing the agreement she put into place. I'm ruling Alissa Grayson's statements admissible and allowing the prosecution to call her as a witness."

Morgan handed a document across the judge's desk. "I only received this notice to add Alissa Grayson to the prosecution's witness list this morning. It will take time to review the statements she made. I request a continuance."

"The statements are fairly simple, Ms. Morgan. You have the rest of the day," the judge granted. "We'll resume at 9:00 tomorrow morning."

The two attorneys exited Judge Yee's chambers together. Carmichael stepped out into the hallway ahead of Morgan and waited until the door was closed before suggesting lightly, "I don't suppose you'll want to meet to go for a run tonight."

Morgan glared at her angrily, then turned on her heel without a word.

"I'll take that as a 'no'," Carmichael muttered to herself as she turned in the opposite direction.

***McCoy knocked softly on the frame of Morgan's open office door. "Anybody home?"

Morgan visibly jumped and spun around from where she had been standing in front of the window. "Jack! You nearly scared me to death!"

"I'm sorry. I was sure that you heard me come in."

Recovering her composure somewhat, Morgan returned to her chair. "Well, I didn't. How did you get in here, anyway? I thought the front door was locked."

He strolled toward her desk, hands in the pockets of his jeans. "I caught Melissa downstairs as she was leaving. She let me in." Taking note of her dejected look, he sat down across from her. "Rough day?"

Morgan shrugged. "I've certainly had worse, but it could've been better. What brings you here?"

"I stopped by to see if I could talk you into having dinner with me tonight."

She shook her head. "I would be pretty poor company. I was planning to finish up with a couple of things and head home to a hot bath. Maybe some other time."

"Are you sure? Can't I tempt you with some pasta or something?"

"I'm not feeling very sociable tonight. Can I take a raincheck?"

He smiled and nodded. "That can be arranged. But since you turned me down, I need a ride home. The cab I took over here is long gone and it will take forever to get another. Do you mind dropping me at my place?"

"Not at all. I just need to gather some notes for tomorrow." As she began to clear her desk she asked, "How did your day go?"

"It went well. We started on the circumstantial part of our evidence today and the defense wasn't able to shoot any major holes in it. So far, so good."

His dark eyes followed Morgan as she got up to return a file to a cabinet behind her desk and pack the last paperwork into her briefcase.

"I think I'm ready," she informed him.

McCoy followed her down the hallway and out of the offices, holding her briefcase as she locked the door.

On the way down the stairs he asked, "Did Drew and Grace get to the airport all right yesterday?"

"Yes, they did. They both said to tell you that they had a great time the other night. And Grace said that she especially enjoyed the time the two of you spent together on Friday."

With a grin he noted, "I like Grace. She's all right. Did you know she carries a gun?"

She nodded. "I'm the one who helped her get the permit, and I don't think Drew has ever completely forgiven me for doing so. He was really against it. But she took a gun safety course and I had her speak with a couple of cops I know. It wasn't a hasty decision and she's handled the whole thing responsibly."

"Well, I for one wouldn't want to be on her bad side," he acknowledged.

When they reached her car, Morgan handed McCoy the keys, allowing him to drive. On the way to his apartment she was quiet and he found himself doing most of the talking.

Once they reached his place, instead of pulling to the front he parked around the corner in the tenants' parking area. After turning off the ignition, he kept the keys in his hand. "I have a confession to make: Asking you to bring me home was only a ploy to get you here. Before I came to your office, I stopped and picked up some dinner for the two of us. It's waiting inside. And since I don't care for it, if you don't come in and eat the vegetable ravioli, it will go to waste. After all the trouble I went to, you wouldn't want that to happen, would you?"

Morgan let out an exasperated sigh. "What happened to taking a raincheck? I told you, I just want to go home and soak in a hot bath. I've had a rotten day and I'm in a lousy mood!"

"I'm not asking you to entertain me, just to come in and have dinner."

"Jack…"

"I asked around. This is supposed to be one of the best Italian dishes in Manhattan," he interrupted. "Come on. You know you'll feel better once you've had something to eat."

Reaching up to rub the back of her neck, she sighed again. "Okay, okay, you win. But you can't get mad if I eat and run. It's been a really long day."

He smiled. "I promise not to keep you too late."

McCoy led the way into the building and then his apartment. He was glad he had spent time cleaning over the weekend; it hadn't had time to get too messy.

"Why don't you take off your coat and make yourself comfortable," he suggested once they were inside. "We can either sit at the bar or on the floor at the coffee table. Your choice."

Leaving her shoes by the door and her coat on a chair, she followed him to the kitchen. "The floor is okay with me, if it's all right with you."

"The floor it is," he agreed, hanging his jacket on the back of a barstool. "I'll let you take the food to the living room while I get us something to drink."

When they were settled across from each other, with McCoy sitting between the table and the sofa, Morgan acknowledged, "Your source was right. The ravioli is excellent. And thanks for picking it up. To be honest, I really didn't feel like going home and scrounging. I didn't have time to shop or cook over the weekend and my cupboard is bare."

"I knew you hadn't had the best day, so I thought you could use a break."

"And how do you know about the kind of day I've had?" she asked curiously.

He shrugged. "I spoke with Abbie after court. I know what she's planning to do tomorrow and I know you can't be too happy about it."

"Now there's an understatement." Morgan picked at her food absently, staring at her plate. "I spent the day trying to decide what I should do: sacrifice the daughter by asking her to tell the world what a low-life her dad was in order to save her mother, or refuse to use her to back up what her mother is going to say when she takes the stand. And more than anything else, I resent being put in the position of having to choose."

"I thought you might be having a tough time with this," he noted.

She shook her head. "I feel as though Abbie is using something against me that she only knows as a result of our friendship. I never told her the details, but I did tell her that I had to testify against my father when I was a kid. She knows how I feel about putting children on the stand. It's as if she's testing me, intentionally backing me into a corner. In the statements she sent over, she never once asked Alissa about the abuse. I thought she would've done so for her own peace of mind, if for no other reason. I told her from the start that Alissa admitted the abuse to me. Abbie has to know that I can find a way to bring it up when Alissa is on the stand. I can't figure out what she's thinking."

Since he was beginning to feel a pinch of conflict in presenting a united front, he sidestepped the issue by asking, "What does your client want you to do?"

"She's torn. She doesn't want her daughter anywhere near the trial, but she realizes that what Alissa says could go a long way in getting her out of all of this and back to her family. Although Alissa is terrified, she says she's willing to answer whatever I ask. So Sara is leaving the decision to me; she says that she trusts I'll do what's right." Morgan huffed out a breath. "As if I know what that is."

McCoy watched her play with her food for a moment and then suggested kindly, "Maybe you're making this harder than it has to be by allowing your past to cloud your judgment. If you were to look at the situation a little more objectively, it might make your decision easier."

"So it's _objectivity_ that I'm lacking when I have a problem with publicly humiliating a fifteen year old girl!" she reasoned with more than a hint of sarcasm.

He leaned toward her. "What happened to not taking what happens in the courtroom personally?"

"I've never made that claim," she reminded him with a slight smile. "You're the one who made a statement to that effect, remember? I take some things _very_ personally, and I don't mind admitting it. I'm also well aware that my past is influencing my view of this situation, but there isn't much I can do about that."

"You have to find a way to set aside what you feel and look at things more dispassionately."

"Like you do?" she suggested pointedly.

"I'll agree that there have been a few exceptions to the rule, but for the most part, I don't allow myself to take my job or things that happen in the courtroom personally," he insisted.

Morgan looked at him skeptically. "I seem to remember hearing some stories that would seriously contradict that claim. Whether you choose to admit it or not, you take things just as personally as everyone else does, and your past experiences have a lot to do with the decisions you make every day. We are all products of our individual histories; it's what shapes us into the people that we are and the way we view the world. And since all of our decisions are affected by personal experiences, complete objectivity is just not possible."

"I don't agree with you. Judges make objective decisions all the time. So do juries. Objectivity is possible, you just have to consciously work at keeping personal feelings and experiences in their place," McCoy contended.

She rolled her eyes. "Right. How many times have you been shot down by a judge with a personal agenda, or had a jury be swayed by emotion rather than the facts presented? We can't separate who we are from how we perceive the world around us. The most we can hope for is a certain degree of impartiality."

Deciding that it was something not worth arguing over, McCoy chose to change the subject. "Speaking of decisions, have you considered the precedent it will set if you get your client off? How are we supposed to handle the next case where a woman kills her unsuspecting husband, then uses abuse, or mental duress, or PMS as an excuse?"

"You will handle it the way you always have," she answered matter-of-factly, "on a case by case basis, carefully weighing the facts and making an unbiased decision."

McCoy's eyebrows shot up. "Did I hear a compliment in there somewhere? You make me sound as wise as Solomon himself!"

"I was making a general statement. You shouldn't take things so personally," she quipped.

He chuckled, then grew quiet. After a moment he asked, "Do you honestly think Sara Grayson was justified in killing her husband?"

"I don't know," Morgan admitted candidly. "It's difficult to overlook the fact that he was asleep when she did it. But everyone has their breaking point and she did put up with him for a long time. I do absolutely believe that everything she and her children have had to endure is punishment enough, though. In no way is she a threat to society; putting her in prison on top of all that she's been through is _not_ the just thing to do."

"Maybe, but my mother put up with my father for a lot longer and she didn't resort to killing him. And you didn't kill Frank," he reminded her. "I find it hard to justify your client bypassing the system and meting out justice the way she saw fit."

"There were plenty of times when I felt that the only way out of my situation was death," she confessed quietly, "either mine or his. Your mother and I may not have killed our husbands, but I can guarantee you that we both felt a sense of relief when we realized that they could no longer hurt us."

After contemplating for a moment, McCoy reluctantly nodded his agreement. "I don't think my mother truly felt that until after my father died."

"For me, I think that moment came when you told me that Frank was going to go to prison," she acknowledged. "I only hope I can earn my client an acquittal so that she can come to the same realization about her husband. Right now, she's still very much feeling the effects of Mitchell Grayson's abuse."

"So what are you going to do about the daughter?"

With a long sigh, Morgan pushed her plate aside. "I'm going to toss and turn all night, change my mind at least half a dozen times, then play it by ear tomorrow. I probably won't make a final decision until after Abbie has questioned Alissa and I see how she does on the stand."

"Sounds like the way I work things out sometimes." Leaning back against the couch and stretching his arms out on the cushions, he added, "I hope you won't allow all of this to affect your off-the-clock relationship with Abbie. The two of you are good friends; I'd hate to see that change due to a little courtroom disagreement."

"We're not six-year-olds fighting over whose Barbie has the better clothes, Jack. Abbie crossed the line. I told her Sara's kids were in no shape to talk about any of this, let alone testify, but she chose to go ahead anyway. She's putting her desire to win ahead of the welfare of someone truly innocent in all of this. It wouldn't get her disbarred, but what she's doing is unethical and unconscionable nonetheless," Morgan stated resolutely.

"You can't blame Abbie alone for putting your client's daughter in the position she's in," he reminded her gently.

After studying him for a moment, she sighed again. "I suppose you're right. As for my problem with Abbie..." With a shrug, she decided, "I'll get over it, eventually."

"I'm glad to hear that. I know how women can hold grudges."

Shaking her head Morgan said, "There you go with your preconceived misconceptions about women again. When are you going to learn that some of us are different?"

"Oh, you're all different!" he agreed. "That's what keeps us men guessing and reaching for the hard liquor!" He felt the same sense of pleasure at her quiet laugh as he had before. "You didn't eat much. Do you want me to wrap it up for you to take home?"

"Yes, I'll definitely take it with me. It's too good to leave behind with someone who doesn't appreciate veggie ravioli." As she picked up her plate and glass, he did likewise, following her to the kitchen.

When the food was wrapped and the dishes put away, they made their way back to the living room. Morgan placed the plastic bag containing her pasta on a small table next to the door. McCoy stood beside her in front of the sofa.

"Would you like to watch a movie or just talk for a while? It might take your mind off of work. A little diversion can sometimes help put things into perspective."

She moved away and picked up her shoes. "That's a tempting offer but I'll have to pass. I have to be up early in the morning."

"Anxious to get started on all that tossing and turning?" he teased.

Morgan smiled. "Given the kind of day I've had, I should've run tonight, but I had a late client and then you showed up. So now I have to go home and try to soak some tension away. The tossing and turning will come later."

She sat down in the chair beside his grandfather clock to put on her shoes.

McCoy stood watching her. "What time is Abbie putting your client's daughter on tomorrow?"

"Besides Alissa, she only has one other witness left to call - the attorney who drew up the guardianship agreement for Sara. I can't see his testimony being of any great length, so unless she springs another surprise, I think she'll wrap up the People's case by noon. I'll probably start calling defense witnesses as soon as we return from lunch."

As she picked up her coat, he suggested, "Why don't I come by and get you for lunch? The two of us can find somewhere quiet to eat and you can tell me how things turn out."

When he had helped her into the coat, she turned to face him. "Let's play it by ear. I may not be in the mood for conversation by the time it's all over with."

McCoy smiled and nodded. "All right. I'll stop by when we break for lunch and you can let me know then what you decide." He stepped into his shoes and opened the door for her.

As they walked out of his building and into the chilly night air she said, "Thank you for dinner this evening. What you did was thoughtful and I do feel better after having eaten. Thanks for lending an ear, too. I'm sorry I wasn't better company."

"You're welcome for the food, and you don't need to apologize for anything. I enjoyed tonight. You're certainly not the only one who sometimes struggles with a difficult decision regarding a case. Anytime you need to talk to someone, you know where to find me."

When they reached her car, he pulled her keys from the pocket of his jeans, unlocked the door and then handed them to her.

"Thank you. I'll probably see you tomorrow. Enjoy what's left of the evening."

"You too. And try not to worry too much. Things will work out," he assured her.

She nodded and got into the car. "Good-night, Jack."

"Good-night, Calea. Drive safely."

When she pulled away, he stuffed his cold hands into his pockets and quickly returned to the warmth of his apartment.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

As Carmichael approached the witness stand, Alissa Grayson squirmed nervously in the hard wooden chair and tried to keep her eyes from straying to the left where twelve faces were turned toward her, or to the defense table where her mother sat watching apprehensively.

Hoping to make the experience as quick and painless as possible, Carmichael wasted no time with preliminaries.

"Alissa, I want you to tell us what happened the Sunday evening before your father was killed."

Even with the microphone, her halting voice was barely audible. "After we had dinner, my dad made each of us tell him what we had learned in church that day. I helped my brother with some reading, then we went to bed."

When she didn't immediately continue Carmichael prompted, "What happened before you went to sleep?"

She twisted her fingers tightly together in her lap. "My sister was already asleep when my mother came into the room we shared. She said I should get up and pack as much of our stuff as I could into some boxes she had with her, and that I should put everything we needed for school in one box so we could find it easily. I woke my sister up so she could help me, and we packed everything in our room."

"What did you do next?"

"My mother asked me to help my brother and sister carry some of the boxes out to our car, so I did. Then she told us to get into the car and we left."

"Where was your father?"

"He was asleep in my parent's bedroom."

"He didn't wake up while you were packing?"

"No. My mother said he had taken a sleeping pill because he was going to start a big project at work the next day and needed to get some rest. Whenever he took a sleeping pill it was really hard to wake him."

"And you're sure he was alive when you left?"

"Yes. As we were walking out, I passed their bedroom and I saw him move."

"Where did your mother say you were going?"

"She said she was taking us to her friend Sandy's house."

"Did she say anything about your father coming along?"

The girl glanced at her mother. "Not really. She told us that he was going to go on a trip with his work and we were going to stay with Sandy while he was gone."

"What happened once you reached Sandy Hamilton's home?"

"We unloaded what we had brought with us and Sandy showed us where we could put everything."

"Was she surprised to see you?"

"No. She had one room ready for my sister and me, and another one for my brother."

"How did she know you were coming?"

"My mother said she had called her before we left."

"Did you see or hear her do so?"

"No."

"What did your mother do when you arrived?"

"She helped us unpack a few things and get settled into bed. Then she left."

"Did she say where she was going, or what she was going to do?"

Alissa smoothed back her hair with a shaky hand. "She told me she was going back to our house to get the rest of our things and that she would return later."

"Do you know how long she was gone?"

"No. I fell asleep before she came back."

"What did you do the next day?"

"My mother took my brother and sister and me to lunch, then to enroll in our new schools."

"And did your mother say anything about your father that day?"

The girl shook her head. "No."

"What about the following days, before she was arrested?"

"She didn't say anything about him at all."

"Thank you, Alissa. I have no further questions," Carmichael told her with what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

Standing up, Morgan slowly walked toward the witness stand. "Alissa, was your mother nervous or upset the Sunday night your father died?"

Carmichael stood up. "Objection. Counsel is asking the witness to testify as to the defendant's state of mind. Given that she isn't a mental health professional, or a mind reader, she isn't qualified to answer the question."

Morgan turned toward the judge's bench. "Your Honor, I'm not asking the witness about Mrs. Grayson's state of mind. I'm only asking her to tell us what she observed in regards to the demeanor of her mother, with whom she has lived all of her life. Surely that qualifies her to answer the question."

"Overruled," Judge Yee nodded. "The witness may answer the question."

As Carmichael resumed her seat, the girl focused once more on Morgan. "Mostly, my mother seemed sad. I woke up later that night and I heard her crying."

"And the next day? How did she seem then?"

Looking at her mother, tears began to fill her eyes and her voice grew unsteady. "She was still sad. She spent the whole day with us and kept saying how much she loved us and wanted us to be good while we were at Sandy's. And she told us she didn't want us to worry about anything. I didn't really understand what she meant at the time." She looked at Morgan pleadingly through the tears. "What she did to my father wasn't her fault."

From her angle of view, Carmichael could only partially see Morgan's face as she stood to the side of the jury. But the partial view was all she needed to recognize her indecisiveness.

After a brief pause, Morgan said quietly, "I don't have any other questions for this witness."

Alissa Grayson looked at Morgan in surprise, then relief flooded her face at Judge Yee's dismissal. She stood up quickly, bumping the microphone in her haste to leave the stand.

Carmichael breathed a sigh of relief.

"You may call your next witness, Ms. Carmichael," Judge Yee suggested.

"The People rest, Your Honor."

"Then we will recess for lunch, after which the defense may begin to present their case."

***McCoy checked the clock on the back of the courtroom wall just before he hit the door. With any luck, he would be in time to hear for himself what Morgan had decided regarding the questioning of Alissa Grayson. He walked quickly, dodging people on his way down the crowded corridor.

When he reached the door to Part 36, he pushed it open carefully, then stopped short. With the exception of a single figure, the room was empty. He approached the prosecution's table and stood at a discreet distance while Penland finished a cell phone conversation.

Penland turned to look over his shoulder as he slipped his phone into his briefcase. "Hey, Jack. If you're looking for Abbie, you just missed her."

McCoy took a couple of steps toward the table as Penland packed his remaining belongings.

"What about Calea? How long ago did she leave?"

Standing up and joining McCoy he answered, "She left before Abbie did."

"Did she say anything about where she was going?"

"Are you kidding? Judging by the 'drop dead' look she sent our way, I got the feeling she wasn't too happy about the People's last witness. She took off as soon as we were dismissed."

With a sigh, McCoy started for the door.

Penland stuck beside him. "If you don't have any other plans, maybe I could buy you lunch. There's an arson case I could use some advice on."

McCoy stopped at the door and turned to him, intending to politely beg off. But noting the eager expression on the younger man's face, he forced a smile. "Looks like my plans fell through. Where do you want to go?"

***Carmichael sat in her chair, picking at a hangnail. She knew she needed to tackle the stack of files on her desk, but couldn't seem to find the motivation. All she could think about was how much she wanted to go for a long, hard run. But the thought of running alone only made her more depressed.

"I think you took the memo on conserving energy a little too seriously," McCoy commented from the doorway. "Don't you believe in using the lights anymore?"

Motioning for him to turn them on she said, "I just came in and hadn't gotten around to turning them on."

After flipping the switch, he regarded her carefully. "How did it go?"

"With whom? The prosecution, the defense, or the witness?" she asked dryly.

Taking a seat near the door he decided, "Start with the prosecution."

Carmichael shrugged. "I'd say it's a toss-up as to whether putting Alissa Grayson on helped us or not."

"And the defense?"

"Let's just say that Calea and I aren't going running together today, or tomorrow, or anytime next week for that matter. I'm thinking that sometime next month might be too soon for her to share anything more than courtroom air with me." Opening a desk drawer, she rummaged around for a nail clipper. "The witness, on the other hand, gave me what I wanted. She made it through her entire testimony without saying anything that hurt us. And I was right about Calea; she didn't ask Alissa anything about her home life, even though the girl more than opened the door for it with the last statement she made. Alissa was visibly relieved when Calea passed on the opportunity. After we recessed, I spoke with the court officer and asked permission for her to have lunch with her mother. They both seemed to appreciate the time together."

His eyebrows arched. "That was thoughtful of you. Any particular reason for the sudden attack of charity?"

Shaking her head at the wise-crack she retorted, "Contrary to popular opinion, it isn't the first nice thing I've ever done in my life."

He sat forward and leaned his elbows on his knees. "You have nothing to feel guilty about, Abbie. You did what you felt you had to."

"Right," she agreed unconvincingly.

"Sometimes, to do our jobs as the good guys, we have to look like the bad guys," he pointed out. "Calea knows that. She'll get over all of this. You're too good of friends for her not to. Just give her some time."

Carmichael closed her desk drawer with a little more force than she had intended and it banged loudly, punctuating her frustration. "It isn't only about the two of us! I shouldn't have put Alissa on the stand! You should've seen her Jack; she was petrified. Calea was right. No child should have to go through something like that."

"Hind-sight is twenty-twenty. Stop beating yourself up about something that's over and done with. Chalk it up to experience and go on," McCoy advised. "After I finish going over some points for tomorrow with Serena, why don't you let me buy you a drink? A change of scenery would do you good."

"Thanks, but I'll pass."

"What? You get to cheer me up when I'm down in the dumps, but I'm not allowed to return the favor?" he demanded teasingly.

"I'd be lousy company. You've got enough with your case; you don't need me crying on your shoulder."

McCoy grinned and shook his head. "You _need_ a break from Calea. You've been hanging around her too long. You're even starting to sound like her."

Failing to grasp his humor, she asked sharply, "What's that supposed to mean?"

He only smiled more broadly as he stood up and checked his watch. "Nothing. I'm coming back in an hour. Be ready to go."

Not waiting for an argument, he headed for the door, turning off the lights as he left her office.

Carmichael sat in the semi-darkness for another minute before a slow smile came to her. Shaking her head, she got up, turned the lights back on, then sat down and reached for a file.

***Lewin appeared at the opposite door of McCoy's office as Southerlyn gathered her notes and left through the other for her cubicle across the hallway.

"How did court go?"

"Fine," he answered as she sat down on the sofa. "I should wrap up our side by the middle of next week."

"That's good to hear. Have you talked with Abbie today?"

"I spoke with her a little while ago. Why?"

"She seems upset, and I don't think it's all about the case, per se. I couldn't get her to talk about it, but I got the feeling it's something personal. When she told me she wanted the Grayson case, she assured me that she could keep her friendship with this other attorney separate, but I'm not sure she's managing that very well."

"Going up against a friend makes this case is a little different from any she's handled on her own before, and she's having some self-doubts," McCoy noted. "She'll work it out, though."

"I hope so. I don't like seeing her so down. I'm glad she seems to be able to talk with you about her problems."

"Well, I had to pry it out of her," he admitted with a smile.

Lewin returned the smile. "Tell me something about the attorney she's up against."

He shrugged. "She's good."

"It takes more than being a good attorney to become a friend."

McCoy nodded in agreement. "Calea is special."

Noting the smile in his eyes, she said, "I'd like to meet her someday."

"Next time she stops in, I'll introduce you," he promised.

"You do that." She got up and started for the door. "Keep me posted on your case and how things are with Abbie. If I can do anything to help the situation, let me know. See you in the morning, Jack."

***With the number of rings that had gone unanswered, McCoy had resigned himself to leaving a message when Morgan's breathless voice finally answered into his ear.

"Calea, it's Jack. I was about to give up on you."

"I'm sorry. I was in the shower and didn't hear the phone right away."

"I've been trying to call you all evening. Where have you been?"

"It's been a hectic day. I had a long meeting with a client after court, and then I went for a run. I only got home a little while ago."

"Burning the candle at both ends again," he noted. "I thought you were going to wait and have lunch with me today."

"I was in need of some serious alone time after Alissa took the stand. I didn't feel much like conversation."

"Abbie told me that you didn't ask Alissa any questions about her father. Weren't you happy with your decision?"

With a heavy sigh she replied, "I don't know. I'm not sure I did the right thing. I think you may have been right last night. It's possible that I put my personal feelings ahead of my client's best interest."

"You did what you thought was right," McCoy reminded her. "I wish you would've gone to lunch with me. We could've talked things out. I did offer to lend an ear, or a shoulder, remember?"

Morgan was quiet for a moment, then finally said, "You know me. I'm pretty self-sufficient. I like to work things out for myself."

"Don't remind me!" he responded, only half-joking. "I thought about you as I was eating left-over lasagna tonight. Did you finish your ravioli?"

"I haven't had the chance. I've only been home long enough to take a shower."

"This late and you haven't eaten yet? I'd better let you go, then. I wouldn't want you to faint from hunger! Maybe we can meet up for lunch tomorrow and talk more."

"I can't tomorrow. I have to deliver a contract to a client on my lunch break," she explained. "But I appreciate the offer."

"Okay. I'll try to pin you down another day this week. Sleep well, Calea."

"You too, Jack."

After he laid down the phone, he sat thinking about the two separate but similar conversations he'd had that evening. It was nice to be the ambassador of good will for a change, instead of being on one side or the other of the issue. But at least Carmichael had allowed him to buy her a drink and had then vented. Morgan had chosen to avoid him altogether, and had shared very little in their phone conversation. It seemed that no matter how many times he offered to help, or how sincerely, she was still uncomfortable with allowing him too close.

He swung his feet up and stretched out on the sofa, propping an arm behind his head and closing his eyes to block out the light. As he began to relax and drift off slightly, the words to a song a former girlfriend used to play over and over again floated around his mind. He tried to remember how it started, but could only recall the refrain: "Let me be the one you run to, let me be the one you come to, when you need someone to turn to, let me be the one…" He wished that, just once, Morgan would willingly turn to him and allow him to offer comfort, to be there for her. Just once…


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

When Carmichael had collected her files and notes, she turned to find McCoy walking through the double doors of the courtroom.

"Can I bum a ride back to the office?" he asked as she met him. "Serena had to leave to do some work on another case and I rode with her this morning."

"Sure," she agreed. "I could use the company. Todd and I came in separate cars today."

As they walked towards the elevators McCoy asked, "Where have you been keeping yourself? I saw neither hide nor hair of you yesterday after court, or this morning."

"Before I got back to the office yesterday, I got a page from Green to meet him and Briscoe over at the 27th to talk with a hit and run suspect they picked up. I had to appear for the arraignment early this morning, so I didn't make it to the office. I've had two very long days in a row, and I'm beat."

"How are things going with the case?"

"All right, I suppose," Carmichael answered. "Calea brought in her expert on battered-woman syndrome yesterday. I was able to get him to admit much the same thing my expert did, that a lot of what Sara did didn't fit the profile, but Calea muddied the waters again on re-examination. This morning Sandy Hamilton told everyone why she thought Sara had reason to kill Mitchell. She was sort of flaky though, so I don't think she came across as being all that credible. This afternoon Nick Russell from Green's old precinct detailed his investigation of the religious group the Grayson's belonged to, but on cross he admitted he didn't know anything about the Grayson's situation specifically, so I don't think his testimony did much for the defense either."

As they stepped into the elevator he asked, "Who's up for tomorrow?"

"Briscoe, probably. I'm sure Calea is eager for the jury to hear how an experienced police detective changed his mind about her client's motive."

"Juries don't take what cops say as gospel anymore. Be sure to point out how they're sometimes wrong," he advised.

She nodded. "I think Calea is also going to call some higher-up from the Grayson's church, although I'm not really sure why. I doubt he's going to admit that they all routinely beat their wives. It should be interesting, though."

"I'm sure you can handle it," he said as they left the elevator. "Any plans for this evening?"

"As a matter of fact, I'm going running."

He gave her a surprised look. "With Calea?"

Carmichael shook her head. "I'm going with Todd, which should give you some indication of how desperate I've become."

"So what do you have against Todd?" he asked teasingly.

"I don't have anything against him, I would just rather not spend my off time with him."

"Well I get the feeling he'd like to spend his off time with you. He asked some very suspicious questions about you when he and I had lunch yesterday. I think he's getting ready to make a move," McCoy predicted.

Carmichael rolled her eyes and groaned. "Great! One more thing to worry about."

"Be gentle with him," he suggested with a smile.

Giving him an annoyed look she declared, "You're enjoying this way too much! And stop encouraging him! The next time the two of you have lunch, talk about the weather, for Pete's sake!"

***"Detective Briscoe, the last time you testified before this court you explained to us that you initially felt Mrs. Grayson had no reason for killing her husband. You then said that upon further investigation, you changed your opinion. You stated, and I quote, 'I don't think she acted without cause'. What made you change your mind?"

"Several things," he responded. "First, my partner and I were contacted by Sandy Hamilton, who had known the defendant for several years. She told us that she suspected Mrs. Grayson had been abused by her husband. Some of her other comments led us to Detective Russell. He told us of the investigation he had conducted into the Fellowship of the Harvest, a group the Grayson's were members of. After that we visited Alissa Grayson and our conversation with her, along with everything else, convinced us that her mother had been abused."

"Alissa Grayson told you her father had abused her mother?"

"Not in so many words," Briscoe noted. "It was more what she didn't say that convinced us. She became very upset when we mentioned the abuse allegation, and even though she didn't confirm it, she also didn't deny it. She begged us not to ask her any questions about what went on in regards to their religious practices, and she tried to take the blame for what her mother had done to her father by saying that she was the cause of it."

"How so?"

"She told us her father was thinking of arranging a marriage between her and one of the other members of the Fellowship of the Harvest, and that her mother was against it. She said her mother had stood up to her father on the matter, something she never did. That gave us a pretty good clue. She also stated that her mother had told them she wouldn't allow anything to happen to her children. When I asked Alissa who it was her mother was trying to protect her from, the man who wanted to marry her, or her father, she broke down. We stopped questioning her at that time."

"Why didn't you insist that she answer your question?"

"We didn't pursue the issue because it didn't seem appropriate to do so. If she had been a suspect, we would've pressed a little harder, but she was a fifteen year old girl who had just learned that her mother had killed her father. And it's been my experience that when a child reveals something a parent has done, no matter what that parent may be guilty of, the child can't help but feel as if he or she has betrayed the parent. Alissa seemed traumatized enough as it was. We didn't want to add to her distress."

Morgan nodded. "You came to the same conclusion I did, Detective, which is why I didn't question her about her father when she appeared before this court."

Carmichael rose from her chair. "Objection! Move to strike. I wasn't aware that we were giving summations at this time or that defense council had been sworn in to offer her _opinion_ as testimony."

"Withdrawn," Morgan stated before Judge Yee could give a ruling. "Detective Briscoe, given your experience with other cases, did you think Mrs. Grayson's actions after the fact were normal for someone who had finally struck out at an abusive spouse?"

"I didn't at first," he admitted. "She seemed rather nonchalant when we initially questioned her. Looking back, I would say she was more resigned than indifferent, and resignation can certainly be an indication of abuse."

"Thank you, Detective. I have no further questions."

Before Morgan had even resumed her seat, Carmichael addressed Briscoe. "So even though there is no hard evidence that Mrs. Grayson was abused, you came to the conclusion that she had been?"

"Yes," Briscoe answered.

"Because of what Mrs. Hamilton, Detective Russell, and Alissa Grayson said to you?"

"Yes."

"Isn't it possible that Mrs. Hamilton's statements were a result of a sense of loyalty to the defendant? That she convinced herself she saw something that wasn't there in order to help her friend?"

"It's possible, but there was other evidence to support her statements."

"You mean the information Detective Russell supplied?"

"That was part of it."

"But his investigation involved a different member of the Grayson's religious group, and he wasn't even able to uncover enough evidence to bring charges. Isn't that true?"

"Yes, but what he told us confirmed what we had already heard about the Fellowship of the Harvest members' treatment of their wives."

"Did Detective Russell have any information on the Graysons specifically?"

"Not specifically, but what he did have showed a pattern of action for their members."

"Even though none of the allegations were ever proven?"

"We read his report. He talked with enough people who made the same accusations to give them weight in our eyes. Where there's smoke, there's usually fire, Counselor."

Carmichael chose to ignore the crack. "And Alissa Grayson's non-admission is what sold you. Is that correct?"

"Her reactions to our questions, along with what we had already learned, did convince us."

"You testified that Alissa was upset when you questioned her. Isn't it possible that you simply misread her reactions?"

"My job requires that I be a pretty good judge of human nature, Counselor. Kids aren't very adept at hiding what they feel under close scrutiny, especially not under those circumstances. So in my opinion, we read her correctly."

"You seem very sure of your opinions, Detective. Would you please tell us what you said to your superior, Lieutenant Van Buren, when you and your partner returned from speaking with Mitchell Grayson's coworkers on the day Mrs. Grayson was arrested?"

"I've had a lot of conversations with my Lieutenant. I don't recall exactly what I said on that particular occasion," Briscoe answered affably.

Carmichael gave him a disapproving look before saying, "Maybe I can refresh your memory. Didn't you say that this case looked like one where the husband was an innocent victim and the wife fell off the deep end?"

"I may have said something to that effect, but that was when we first began the investigation."

"So now you're admitting that your opinions aren't always right?"

"I made the statement I did before I had all the facts. The opinion I hold now is based on further, detailed investigation. And as the People have already stated, I am an expert at investigating," Briscoe pointed out with a hint of sarcasm.

Crossing her arms, Carmichael looked anything but amused. "Your Honor, please instruct the witness to limit his remarks to answers to questions that have been posed."

"Consider yourself so instructed, Detective," Judge Yee advised warningly.

Carmichael shook her head slowly, appearing to be puzzled. "So even though it took you four days to track Sara Grayson down after finding her husband's body, even after learning about the plans she had made prior to murdering her husband, and even though you found no hard evidence to support her claims of abuse, you're convinced that when Sara Grayson took Mitchell Grayson's life, it was a matter of self-defense?"

"Yes," he answered succinctly.

Carmichael moved to stand directly in front of him, her arms still crossed. "Tell me something, Detective: In all the cases you have investigated where a woman killed her abuser, how many of them did so while the abuser was asleep?"

***As Carmichael and Penland were walking toward the elevators, they heard a familiar voice behind them.

"Mind if I join you, or is this a private party?"

With a no-nonsense glare, Carmichael retorted, "You can only join us if you promise to keep the wise-cracks to a minimum."

McCoy looked at Penland. "Did I say something wrong?"

The other man shook his head. "She's a little testy."

"Oh?"

"I just finished questioning Briscoe," Carmichael explained with annoyance. "He was in rare form today and I've had about all the lip I can take."

Shaking his head, McCoy smiled. "You always take your chances where Briscoe is concerned." As they reached the elevator he asked, "Do you have any idea where Calea was going?"

"I saw her leave the courtroom with her client," Penland answered. "I guess they were going to confer. There are only a couple of witnesses left on her list besides Grayson, so maybe she's prepping her to testify today."

"She won't call Sara today," Carmichael assured him. "She'll stretch things out and call her in the morning. Calea wants the jury to digest what they hear today so they'll be fresh for her client's testimony tomorrow. It will stick in their minds better that way." Addressing McCoy she added, "Looks like you're stuck with us for lunch."

He shrugged. "Looks like. Why don't you page Serena and ask her to join us? She's probably still in the building. We may as well make it an office party."

***After he was sworn in, Isaac Fillmore sat down in the witness box. He was a tall man of average build, with coal-black eyes and permanent frown lines etched into his brow. He watched Morgan approach with his head tilted back slightly, conveying an air of superiority.

"Mr. Fillmore, what is your occupation?"

"I am the director and pastor of the Fellowship of the Harvest. And my title is 'Reverend' Fillmore."

Morgan regarded him coolly for a moment before continuing, "Would you please briefly explain your organization's beliefs concerning the roles of each family member, Mr. Fillmore?"

Glaring at Morgan's slight, he answered, "It's quite simple. As the Good Book says, the head of the husband is Christ, the head of the wife is the husband, and the head of the children are the parents."

"And what does being the 'head' encompass?"

"The responsibilities of the parents are to provide for and teach their children right from wrong. The husband has the primary role in this regard, and he is also responsible for taking the lead where his wife is concerned."

"And is discipline a part of a husband and father's responsibility?"

"Of course."

"Does this include corporal punishment?"

Fillmore smiled patronizingly. "I know it's an unpopular notion in this day and time, but the Bible indicates that corporal punishment is an accepted form of discipline. 'Spare the rod, spoil the child' as it says."

"And would disciplining one's wife also include corporal punishment?" Morgan asked.

"It isn't my place to make blanket policy for the members of our church. How a husband and wife work out their differences is a matter to be decided between the two of them."

"But physically punishing one's wife is not something discouraged by your organization, correct?"

Shaking his head Fillmore said, "I've already explained to you that how a husband and wife choose to handle a matter is not for me to say."

Morgan took a few steps closer to the stand. "All right. Then let me ask you this: If the wife of one of your members approached you, told you that her husband was beating her, and asked for help, in your capacity as pastor what would you advise her?"

He shrugged. "I would remind her of her scriptural obligation to obey and submit to her husband and head."

"And what of her husband's obligation to love and cherish his wife? Can that be reconciled with his hitting her?"

"Parents are told in the Bible to love their children, too, but that doesn't preclude them from using the rod to discipline them when it's needed," Fillmore answered, becoming more animated.

"Would it surprise you to know that in the original Hebrew language in which the verse you referred to was written, the word translated 'rod' simply meant a shepherd's staff, Mr. Fillmore? A shepherd uses his staff to gently guide his sheep. He never strikes them with it, does he?"

"I wouldn't know about the Hebrew language, Ms. Morgan. I speak English and my Bible is written in the same language. And there are other instances in the Good Book where it speaks of physical punishment," he replied with mild irritation. "Being a good leader, whether it be of a family or some other institution, requires control. And nowhere is control more needed than within the family environment."

Morgan's eyebrows arched. "Control? What happened to disciplining with, and because of, love?"

"Love requires that we discipline those we care about. 'The Lord disciplines those he loves.' Hebrews 12:6."

Moving to stand even closer, Morgan questioned, "Do you know if Mitchell Grayson disciplined his wife?"

Fillmore nodded slowly, closing his eyes briefly as if in reverence. "Mitchell Grayson loved his wife and children very much. He was a fine Christian man and a loyal friend."

"To your knowledge, did he ever use physical punishment as a means to discipline his wife?"

Giving her a scornful look he retorted, "I didn't live with the Graysons. I can't answer that question."

"Didn't Mrs. Grayson come to you and tell you that he had, asking for your help?"

He turned his attention to Grayson, who visibly cringed under his intense gaze. Anger seeped into his voice as he answered, "Sara Grayson was disloyal to her husband and to God!" His voice grew louder and his eyes seemed to burn as he stared at her. "She is…"

"Mr. Fillmore," Morgan interrupted.

"…a murderer!" he continued. "That woman is…"

"_Mr. Fillmore!_" Morgan repeated more sternly. When he turned his face toward her, she met his enraged eyes unwavering. "That is all. I don't have any more questions for you."

Morgan stood beside the witness box, her eyes locked with Fillmore's. Only when she was sure he was not going to continue speaking did she return to her chair.

Carmichael sat for a moment, watching the man before her literally seethe with anger. She was more than a little surprised that Morgan had chosen to call him as a witness. His dislike for Grayson was palpable, and she couldn't see that his testimony had served any useful purpose to the defense. In fact, she saw an opportunity to use Fillmore's dislike to the prosecution's advantage.

Giving him a few more seconds to calm down, she took her time rising and approaching the stand. When she spoke, it was in a placating voice.

"Reverend Fillmore, how well did you know Mitchell Grayson?"

Finally turning his eyes from the direction of the defense table, he looked at Carmichael blankly for a moment before answering, "I knew him very well. He was a member of my church for almost ten years."

"What kind of man was he?"

"He was a good man. He took an interest in his family that is sadly lacking in most men these days. Many times we had lengthy discussions on the perils this world holds for our young people. He was concerned for the spiritual as well as physical welfare of his family. I'm proud to say that he was my friend."

"Given that you were Mitchell Grayson's friend, and the families' pastor for such a long time, would you say they appeared to be happy?"

Fillmore turned his eyes toward Grayson once again. "For the most part, they seemed to be happy. But Sara was a complainer. She was never satisfied. She worked outside of the home instead of spending needed time with her children. Mitchell made a good living, but she felt it wasn't enough."

Morgan stood up. "Move to strike. The witness previously stated that he didn't live with the Grayson's and therefore didn't know the details of their personal life. He couldn't know what my client was feeling unless she communicated it to him in his capacity as pastor, which would make it privileged."

Addressing the bench Carmichael argued, "Your Honor, we're not talking about the sanctity of a confessional here. Defense counsel is the one who established that Mrs. Grayson came to Reverend Fillmore and spoke with him. It stands to reason that he would have learned something about her thoughts and feelings and could relay those without revealing anything that would be considered of a privileged nature."

"I'll allow it," Judge Yee stated. "You did open the door, Ms. Morgan."

Turning back to Fillmore, Carmichael continued. "Reverend, when Ms. Morgan cut off your response to her last question, you were going to tell us something about Mrs. Grayson. Would you please continue with what you were going to say?"

Carmichael half expected to hear an objection from Morgan, but none was forthcoming as Fillmore focused once more on the defense table and declared, "This woman killed my brother, by her own admission. Then she lied to cover up her sin." His voice grew more forceful as he sat forward in his chair, fixated on Grayson. "'The murderers and all liars–their place will be in the fiery lake of burning sulfur. This is the second death.'" Allowing his anger full vent, he stood up, pointed a finger at Grayson, and raised his voice even more. "She has committed the unforgivable sin! She is a Jezebel and she will burn for all eternity!"

Carmichael took a step back from the witness stand and Fillmore's rage as Judge Yee banged her gavel, trying to restore order after the outburst.

Glancing over her shoulder, Carmichael saw Morgan put her arm around her crying client as Fillmore slowly lowered his hand. Although Judge Yee instructed Fillmore to sit down, it was several seconds more before he finally complied.

Once quiet had fallen over the courtroom again, Carmichael decided, "I have no more questions."

Returning to her chair, she exchanged a look with Morgan. In that brief moment, she was sure she detected a note of satisfaction in the other woman's eyes.

When Morgan suggested that court resume when her client was in a better emotional state, Yee concurred and dismissed for the day.

Carmichael asked Penland to meet her outside, then waited until the courtroom had mostly cleared. When Morgan turned to leave, she stood in front of her.

With a smirk she suggested, "That was quite a show. Did I perform my part as expected?"

"I don't know what you're referring to," Morgan responded innocently.

"I'm referring to the fact that you put a loaded gun up there and counted on me to trip the hair-trigger!"

"You didn't have to ask him any questions."

"But you knew I would!" Carmichael accused, irritated at herself for not realizing Morgan's intent sooner. "Given his obvious dislike for your client, you knew I wouldn't pass up the opportunity. You got just enough out of him to make him sound credible, then let me be the one to show the jury what a lunatic he is!"

Morgan's eyebrows arched. "Are you saying that I set you up for Mr. Fillmore's ranting by taking advantage of something I knew of your _personal_ nature?" She smiled and shrugged. "I guess what goes around, comes around. See you tomorrow, Counselor."

Carmichael stood where she was, watching Morgan walk from the courtroom. Then, huffing out a breath, she shook her head. She couldn't believe she hadn't seen it coming.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

McCoy took the steps leading up to the front doors of the court building two at a time. When he reached the top, he glanced at his watch - not quite 8:00. He had made good time through the morning traffic.

Once inside the building he took the elevator up and headed for the courtroom marked "Part 36". After checking inside to make sure it was empty, he found a bench across the hallway and sat down to wait.

He had been there for no more than ten minutes when he caught sight of Morgan coming toward him down the long hallway.

He stood up as she approached and smiled. "Good morning. How are you today?"

Morgan returned the smile. "I'm fine. And you?"

"Good!" he answered enthusiastically.

With a questioning look she asked, "What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you. I've been trying to catch up with you all week but I always seem to be two minutes too late. Want to go with me to get a cup of coffee?"

"Sure," she agreed, still seeming puzzled.

As they walked down the hallway McCoy said, "I hear you're putting your client on this morning. And summations are tomorrow?"

"Yes. I'll be glad when it's over. How about you? How are things going in Part forty-four?"

"Pretty well. We should finish up in another week or so." He stopped at a machine beside the elevator and fished some change from his pocket.

"You're going to drink this stuff?" she asked, wrinkling her nose. "It doesn't even smell like coffee. I saw a vendor out front as I came in. I'm sure his is fresher."

"This is fine. I had a cup on the way here so I don't need more than a few sips." After he had taken the styrofoam cup from the slot, he turned back the way they had come. "Abbie's been keeping me posted on the trial. Sounds like you've been giving her a run for her money."

"Ohhhh," Morgan nodded knowingly, "_now_ I understand why you're here. She told you what happened yesterday afternoon, and I'm due a lecture on courtroom decorum."

He shook his head. "I'm not going to lecture you. But I do think it's a little ironic that you were so upset when you thought Abbie was using personal knowledge about you to her advantage, and then you turned around and did the same."

"What I did is totally different. I used knowledge that I gathered from observing Abbie in the courtroom. I didn't use something she confided in me over pizza at her place. I needed to show the jury the kind of mentality my client was faced with every day, and I couldn't very well attack my own witness to get him to show his true colors. I had to use Abbie to get what I wanted."

"Kind of underhanded, don't you think?"

"Are you going to tell me that you've never manipulated the opposition into doing something that helped your side, Jack? In an affirmative defense like this, sometimes it's necessary to use someone else to make your point for you." Glancing up at him she added, "But maybe that isn't something you understand, being as you've always sat at the other table."

Motioning for her to sit with him on the bench he had previously occupied, he assured her, "Not only can I understand, but I have played that card myself a time or two. I just don't want to see this thing with you and Abbie get out of hand."

"As far as I'm concerned, we're fine," Morgan noted with a shrug. "Tomorrow the trial will be over and we can put all of this behind us."

"That's assuming the jury renders its verdict by tomorrow," he reminded her.

"They will. My guess is, they'll acquit and be out of here and home in time for dinner."

"You sound pretty sure. Abbie seems to think that it's a draw at best, with a slight edge going to the People."

"Abbie hasn't heard what my client is going to say; I have. Trust me, they're going to acquit."

McCoy shook his head and grinned. "If you say so." He took a sip of coffee then asked casually, "Since you're so sure of winning, why don't you let me buy you dinner tomorrow night to celebrate? There's a new seafood restaurant I'd like to try. You could meet me at my office after court."

Morgan studied him thoughtfully for a moment before saying, "I could probably do that. Assuming I'm right about the jury, of course."

He smiled brightly. "Of course."

She looked at her watch and then at McCoy. "The bus from Riker's should be arriving about now. I need to meet with my client and make sure she's prepared to testify. If I don't see you between now and then, I guess I'll see you tomorrow evening."

"If something comes up, leave a message at my office."

Morgan nodded as she got up. "Have a good day, Jack."

***Sara Grayson hooked her hair behind one ear with a trembling hand. The pale pink suit she was wearing made her look deceptively young, but the fine lines around her eyes betrayed the sleepless nights she had spent at Riker's Island. She clasped her hands tightly together in her lap as Morgan came toward her.

Taking a position beside the witness box, Morgan's voice was full of sympathy. "Sara, I know this is difficult for you, so please take as much time as you need." She touched her client's shoulder reassuringly and added, "No one is going to rush you. And if you need a break, let us know."

Grayson nodded jerkily.

"Why don't you start by telling us how long you were with your husband, and what your life was like when you were first married?"

Looking down at her hands, Grayson answered softly, "We were married for almost twenty-one years, and it was wonderful the first few months. Mitchell was everything I had dreamed of. He was sweet and thoughtful. We were very happy. But then things changed."

"How did they change?"

"Not quite a year after we were married, he was laid off and had trouble finding work. I offered to help, to find a job of my own, but he wouldn't hear of it. He said it was his responsibility to provide for me. Mitchell had a lot of pride. But money was short and he became more and more frustrated. One day when I again suggested that I should find a job, he turned around and slapped me. I was shocked. But afterwards, he was so sorry, I told myself that it was only because of our financial situation and everything would be all right once he was working again."

"And was it?"

"When he first found another job, things were calm again. But every once in a while, he would hit me or push me when we had an argument. He also started putting me down when we were around other people. I never seemed to be able to make him happy."

"Did you ever consider leaving him?"

She nodded. "I thought about it, but I really loved Mitchell, and I knew deep down he loved me. I didn't want to give up. I wanted to make our marriage work. And I knew some things about his childhood, how he had grown up in an abusive household himself, so I told myself I needed to be more understanding. Then I became pregnant, and for a while he was like the person I had married. He was very kind and took care of me when I didn't feel well. I thought things had changed, that maybe a child was what we had needed all along to bring us closer together."

"Did it last?"

"No," she answered sadly. "Not long after Alissa was born, he began hitting me again. Whenever he got angry about anything, he would find a way to blame me or start a fight. His temper got worse and worse and so did the beatings. But when I became pregnant a second time, he stopped hitting me again. After Alex was born Mitchell was so happy to have a son, I was sure he had changed for good. But he soon fell back into his old habits. I thought more and more about leaving him, but by then I didn't think I could take care of two children on my own, so I just tried to stick it out and not make him angry. Then one day he came home very excited. A man had been telling him about the church he was attending, and Mitchell wanted to start going. We had never been church-goers, but I was willing to try anything that might help our situation."

"Is that when you began attending the Fellowship of the Harvest services?"

"Yes, and I started to see a change in Mitchell. He would try to hold onto his temper instead of lashing out, and he took more of an interest in the children. I thought we had finally found the answer to our problems. But then he started going to the private meetings the Fellowship held for the male members who had been associated with them for a while. After he attended them for a few weeks, I began to see another change. He became more controlling, like a dictator, telling us what to do and when to do it. He also started punishing us when we didn't do as he said. He took it pretty easy on the children at first because they were fairly young, but he didn't take it easy on me. Whenever I did something he didn't like, he would hit me, but not in the angry way that he had before. He was very calm and controlled about the way he punished me and no longer apologized afterwards for what he had done. Instead, he'd explain that it was for my own good, and that he did it because he loved me. It was frightening, because he really seemed to believe what he was saying."

"Did you ever tell anyone what Mitchell was doing to you?"

"Not for a long time. I was embarrassed, but I didn't want to do anything to embarrass him." She shrugged, almost apologetically. "I loved him, and I needed him. Sometime after we joined the Fellowship though, when I saw that he no longer felt what he was doing was wrong, I finally spoke to Reverend Fillmore about it."

"What was his reaction?"

"He suggested that I should try harder not to displease my husband. He also pointed out that as my head, Mitchell had the final say in anything that concerned me. I quietly began asking around and almost all of the other wives within the group were going through the same thing. Some of them resented it, but were too afraid to say anything. Others accepted it and seemed to think there was nothing wrong with what their husbands were doing. I knew then that I was in trouble. Mitchell had finally found others who saw things the way he did, who saw nothing wrong with abusing their wives. They actually condoned his behavior, giving it a legitimate purpose by saying it was for the wife's own good. I talked with Mitchell about not attending the Fellowship services anymore, but that only got me another beating. He told me it was where we belonged and he would never stop going. A few days later, I decided to leave him. I came home for lunch, packed a few things, and planned to pick the children up from school and go to my brother's in Vermont. Somehow, Mitchell figured it out and came for me at work. I didn't want to cause a scene, so I got into the car with him. When we got home he broke my arm and said that if I tried to leave again, he and others from the Fellowship would track me down. He also said that if anything ever happened to him, he had signed papers giving custody of our children to one of the other members of the Fellowship." Grayson paused, her eyes pleading. "Nothing in my life is more important to me than my children. I felt like I was trapped."

Morgan nodded. "That's understandable. But couldn't you have told someone else about your problems? Why didn't you try to get help?"

"I didn't think anyone would believe me," Grayson responded quietly, focusing on her hands once more. "To everyone else, Mitchell seemed like such a nice person. And I had waited so long, I didn't know what people would say. I was sure anyone I told would think I was making it up. I also didn't want to risk losing my children. I knew Mitchell meant what he said."

"What about Sandy Hamilton's testimony? How did she know you were being abused?"

Grayson shook her head. "She came to her own conclusions from what she observed. I never told Sandy anything."

"Sara, on the average, how many times a week did Mitchell physically punish you?"

Looking down again she answered, "Two or three times, usually. More if we had a really bad week."

"And what did the punishment consist of?"

She kept her eyes averted. "He would slap me mostly. Sometimes he would hit me in the stomach or on my back with his fists or his belt. If I did something really wrong he would hit me more times, and harder."

Morgan paused for a moment, then suggested quietly, "After putting up with him for so long, please explain to us the circumstances that led up to the point where you finally took action against your husband."

Closing her eyes briefly, Grayson took several quick, deep breaths before answering shakily, "It all started after services one Sunday a few months ago. There is a man who spoke with my husband about our daughter, Alissa. He said he was interested in marrying her as soon as she finishes high school. He asked if Mitchell would arrange the marriage, and Mitchell agreed to do so."

"Was this a common practice with the Fellowship?"

"Yes, it was. Rather than seek a career, women were encouraged to marry within the group and many of them were spoken for when they were only teenagers. I felt a woman should choose her own life, and getting married so young took away a lot of options. I was also afraid that Alissa would end up being married to someone who would treat her as my husband and most other members of the Fellowship treated their wives. I told Mitchell how I felt. I knew he would punish me for questioning him but I had to do something to protect my daughter."

"What happened?"

"He became very angry. He said it wasn't my place to question his decisions and that he alone knew what was best for his child. Then he beat me so badly that I missed two days of work recovering. On one of those days, after my children came home from school, my son told me that he wanted to kill his father to keep him from hurting me anymore." Grayson stopped, struggling unsuccessfully to keep from crying.

"It's all right, Sara," Morgan assured her gently. "Take your time."

"I was so afraid for my children," Grayson finally responded, wiping her eyes with a tissue she had pulled from her pocket. "I knew if Alex stood up to his father, Mitchell would be furious. I didn't know what would happen to my son. I couldn't stand by and watch my children be destroyed. I had to take action. But we couldn't just leave him. He would've found us wherever we went and I was afraid he would kill me when he did. I had to do something to make sure that my children would be safe for good. I wasn't sure what I was going to do, but I knew I had to confront him and find a way to keep him from hurting us anymore."

"What did you do?"

"First I saw to it that my children would be cared for if something were to happen to me. I didn't know if the arrangements Mitchell had made about the custody of our children were legally binding or not, and I couldn't ask anyone because I was afraid of my husband finding out. So I spoke with an attorney, Mr. Holt, and asked him to draw up a guardianship agreement giving temporary custody to Sandy Hamilton in the event of Mitchell's or my death. Then I waited for an opportunity. Mitchell was strong, so I knew if it came to a physical confrontation, I wouldn't be able to overpower him. When he said he was going to take a sleeping pill that Sunday night, I decided that would be my one and only chance. I got the children out of the house and safely to Sandy's, then I borrowed her husband's truck and went back to the house we were renting to load the rest of our belongings. Mitchell was still asleep when I finished."

As Grayson again fought for control of her emotions, Morgan moved closer to rest her hand on the other woman's shoulder. "Tell us what happened, Sara."

Through her tears Grayson replied, "I watched him sleep for a while, trying to figure out what I should do. I could've lived with the way he treated me, but I couldn't live with what was happening to my children. I could only think of one thing." She paused to wipe her eyes again. The courtroom was totally silent when she continued. "I got a knife from the kitchen drawer. Mitchell was sleeping on his stomach, so I stood beside the bed, raised the knife over my head, and brought it down with as much force as I could. Then I ran out of the house, got into the truck, and drove away. I didn't even know if I had killed him or not until a few days later when he hadn't come after me."

Morgan patted her shoulder consolingly as Grayson cried. "It's all right, Sara. I only want to ask you about one more thing."

Grayson nodded and did her best to stop crying.

"If what you did was in defense of yourself and your children, why didn't you go to the police afterwards?"

"I didn't try to run away or hide. There was no point. I knew that if Mitchell was alive, he would find me. But I thought that if I had only hurt him, it would at least make him understand that I couldn't take what he was doing anymore, and he might agree to leave us alone. When he didn't come for me during the next couple of days, I was pretty sure he was dead. Then I knew the police would eventually find me, and that once they did, I would go to prison for what I had done and wouldn't be with my children for a long time. I just wanted to be with them for as long as possible before that happened."

As Grayson dissolved into tears, Morgan said, "Thank you, Sara. We all understand how difficult this was for you to talk about." Moving to stand in front of the bench she added, "Your Honor, I respectfully request a brief recess so that my client may regain her composer before the prosecution begins questioning."

Yee nodded. "We will take a short recess. Court will reconvene in thirty minutes."

***Although Grayson appeared calmer than when she had left the stand, she was clearly apprehensive as Carmichael approached her.

"Mrs. Grayson, would you please tell us again how long you were married to Mitchell?"

"Almost twenty-one years."

"And you said he began hitting you less than a year into the marriage. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

Carmichael shook her head in disbelief. "He abused you for nearly twenty years, and in all that time, you only told one person about it?"

With a quick nod Grayson replied, "Yes."

"You didn't tell a friend or a family member?"

"No," Grayson responded shakily.

"What about the police? Did you ever call them or file a complaint against your husband with them?"

"No."

"Did you ever take your children and go to one of the shelters for battered women to seek help from someone there?"

Grayson's voice became shakier as she answered simply, "No."

"You spoke with an attorney to have a guardianship agreement drawn up. Did you enlist his help in obtaining a restraining order against your husband?"

"No."

"In other words, you didn't exhaust every recourse before taking matters into your own hands. In fact, you didn't take any other action than up and stabbing your husband to death one night while he slept, totally defenseless and unaware, right?"

"Objection!" Morgan's annoyed voice said from behind her as Grayson fought back tears once again. "Prosecution is badgering the witness!"

"Overruled," Yee stated.

Not waiting for Grayson to give an answer to her previous question, Carmichael continued, "When you were first arrested and interrogated, why didn't you tell the police about the abuse?"

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to. I thought that if I just admitted what I did and took my punishment that would be enough. I didn't want anyone to know."

"Why not? If what you said was true and you were trying to protect your children, why wouldn't you want anyone to know? Didn't you feel your actions were justified?"

Drying her eyes and gathering a bit of resolve, she answered more strongly, "Yes, I thought what I did was justified, but I didn't think there was any chance of anyone else seeing it that way. And for the sake of my children, I didn't want to drag their father's name through the mud. They've been through enough. I didn't want them to have to face people asking them questions and making unkind remarks. Despite what he did, Mitchell was their father."

"Then why did you change your mind later? Why did you change your story as to your reason for killing your husband?"

Grayson glanced at her attorney. "Ms. Morgan came to talk with me. She said she understood my actions and that other people would too. She told me there could be a small chance that I wouldn't have to go to prison, that I might be able to stay with my children. No matter how small that chance, I owed it to my children to try. For the first time since this had all started, I felt a little hope. She's the one who convinced me to speak up about what had really happened."

Carmichael moved to stand directly in front of Grayson, her intense eyes fixed on the other woman. In a calm, quiet voice she asked, "How do you feel about what you did to your husband? Do you think it was right?"

Looking down at her hands, Grayson again tried unsuccessfully to hold back tears. In an unsteady voice she answered, "I don't know. I didn't feel I had any other choice at the time."

"And now?" Carmichael pressed, taking a step closer. "Do you still feel that you had no other choice?"

Without looking up at her, Grayson nodded. "Yes."

"Do you feel any remorse?" she asked, allowing the irritation she felt to be heard in her voice.

Covering her mouth with her hand, Grayson sobbed quietly. After a moment she looked up, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Yes."

"Then don't you think you _deserve_ to be punished?" she asked pointedly. Before Morgan had a chance to object, Carmichael turned away and said, "Withdrawn. I have nothing further for this witness, Your Honor."

***Carmichael tore a sheet from her legal pad, wadded it up, and tossed it into the trash can several feet away.

"Nice shot," McCoy commented from the doorway. He walked to the chair across from her and slumped down. Noting the frustrated look on her face he asked, "Something wrong?"

"Just rewriting my closing for the third time this afternoon." She leaned her head against the back of her chair. "I knew exactly what I was going to say before Sara Grayson took the stand. I was going to point out how she didn't admit to anyone that she was abused until she was facing a prison sentence, and how she carefully planned everything before she acted, then tried to hide what she had done. Now if I say anything even hinting that I don't believe the abuse occurred, I'm going to sound like an idiot. I don't have a clue what I'm going to say."

"Sounds like after hearing her testimony, you believe her story."

"My vote doesn't count. What matters is what the jury believes."

"And what does the jury believe?" he asked.

She sighed tiredly. "They believe Sara put up with her husband about nineteen years and eleven months longer than she should have. They're wondering why she didn't do him in sooner." With a slight shrug she added, "I could use some pointers."

McCoy grew thoughtful, knowing how seldom she asked for help and taking the request seriously. "Don't undermine what the jury feels. Let them know that they can be sympathetic for what this woman experienced, and still think what she ultimately did was wrong. Taking the law into one's own hands is never the answer."

She nodded. "I don't know why I couldn't think of that. I feel like my brain is full of cobwebs this afternoon."

He smiled. "Maybe you need a change of scenery again. Want to go get a drink after you're finished?"

Shaking her head, she replied, "The last thing I need is a drink. What I really need is about an hour's worth of running to clear my head."

"Why don't you go? If you don't want to run alone, I'm sure Todd would be happy to go with you. How did that work out the other evening, anyway?"

Carmichael sat forward and picked up her pencil. "He was definitely reading more into the invitation than I intended, so I had to set him straight. I don't think it would be a good idea to ask him to go with me again. And running alone doesn't sound very appealing right now."

Noting that she was not in the mood for teasing, he let the subject of her assistant drop, and said kindly, "It's almost over, Abbie. As soon as the trial is finished, I'm sure you and Calea will patch things up. I spoke with her this morning and she seemed to be fairly amicable when she mentioned you. Maybe you can talk with her after the verdict comes in."

"Maybe," she agreed. As he got up and started for the door she said, "Thanks for helping, Jack. I'll let you know how it goes."

"Break a leg tomorrow," he called over his shoulder.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

As Judge Elizabeth Yee entered the courtroom and opened the day's session, Carmichael's attention was otherwise occupied. Her closing summation continued to play itself in her mind, as it had been doing all morning. It wasn't until Morgan had taken a position in front of the jury that she finally focused on the proceedings.

Holding a piece of paper in front of her for the jury to see, Morgan began, "Despite education and public awareness, violence against women is still a common occurrence in our society. This is a partial list of women living in the greater New York area who obtained restraining orders in the past twenty-four months against various men by whom they felt threatened." She lowered her hand and sadly scanned the list. "I wish I could've brought in some of these women to tell you about the success of restraining orders. Unfortunately, they are all dead. Many of them are known to have been killed by the very individuals they sought protection from." She wadded up the paper, tossed it onto the defense table, and stated emphatically, "Although they are the legal system's answer to the fears of those women who are being stalked or abused, restraining orders are seldom worth the paper they are printed on! If the men listed on such documents played by the rules, court-ordered restraint wouldn't be necessary!

"Sara Grayson was afraid of her husband, and with good reason. Throughout their twenty year marriage, he beat and abused her on a regular basis. Should she have sought help? As outsiders we would say, of course, and it may be difficult for us to understand why she didn't. Even after hearing from an expert about the psychological ramifications spousal abuse has on the one being abused, we may or may not understand her reasons for remaining in such a situation. But consider what Sara was faced with: The man she loved, who promised to love her, destroyed her self-esteem by continually subjecting her to brutal and humiliating treatment. He became, and forced her to become, a member of a radical group of people who condoned such behavior. The one person she did turn to for help implied that the abuse was her own fault and suggested she try harder to please her husband. You heard and saw for yourself the mentality Sara had to deal with when Reverend Fillmore took the stand. Faced with such overwhelming, daily opposition, Sara simply lived her life the best she could, taking care of her family obligations and trying to stay on her husband's good side. And because Mitchell Grayson took all self-worth from her, she didn't care enough about herself to try to change her situation.

"But when it came to her children's welfare, Sara could no longer passively bear her husband's mistreatment. When she began to fear for her children, she took action at her own risk and struck out at her and her children's long-time abuser. In the prosecution's eyes, her final action may seem far too drastic and unwarranted. But who are we to say what Sara felt? She had suffered in silence for years. Who can know what affect that had on her? In her eyes she took the only course available to her in order to protect her children. Does she feel guilty for the result of her action? Of course she does. If a disturbed stranger decided to commit suicide by throwing himself in front of your automobile as you drove down a busy street, would you feel guilt and remorse? Certainly, we all would, even though we wouldn't be at fault. Sara feels much the same thing. She lived with her husband for over twenty years, and at one time loved him very much; he was the father of her children. It's perfectly understandable for her to feel remorse. But those feelings are not grounds to dismiss justification. In her mind she didn't have any other option than the course she took."

Morgan sighed and shook her head slowly. "Sara fully expected to be punished for what she did. She was resigned to spending much, if not all, of the rest of her life in prison. It took a great deal of persuasion on my part to get her into this courtroom to tell you her side of the story. Don't let her down. Don't let the courage it took for her to come here be for nothing. Sara herself may feel guilt and regret at the action she was forced to take, but that doesn't mean she deserves to be punished for it. Mitchell Grayson punished her undeservedly for over twenty years. She doesn't deserve to be punished anymore. She deserves her freedom, and, _finally_, some peace."

After holding the jurists attention for a few seconds longer, Morgan resumed her seat beside her client.

Carmichael slowly rose and walked across the room to take her place, then began with seeming hesitation. "I have a confession to make: Up until yesterday, I was of the opinion that the abuse the defendant alledged was something she had made up and was using as an excuse to avoid punishment. After all, Mitchell Grayson's coworkers and friends told us how proud he was of his family, how they were the subject of the majority of his conversations. It seemed difficult to imagine that this man who was described as a devoted family man and conscientious, helpful coworker could be responsible for the actions his wife was claiming."

She paced the length of the jury box, eyes on the floor. "But after Sara Grayson took the stand yesterday, I doubt that anyone who was present can say they don't now believe that she was abused, or weren't moved with pity for what this woman endured. It's normal human behavior to feel compassion for the suffering of another." She stopped and faced the jurists once more, folding her arms resolutely. "But let's not allow our compassion to cause us to lose sight of the issue at hand. Mitchell Grayson is not the one on trial here, although his actions would've warranted such, if the situation had been handled correctly. Mitchell Grayson is dead because his wife killed him. The justification of that action is the only issue you are here to decide.

"Whatever Sara Grayson suffered, or whatever she thought her children were facing, the fact is she had other remedies available to her that she could've taken advantage of, but didn't. She never solicited the help of family or friends. She never even told them that she was being abused. She never took her children to any one of the numerous shelters that provide safe haven to abused women and their children. During all the years she suffered, she never reported any abuse to the police. And in spite of defense counsel's claims about restraining orders, many more women have been protected by them than have not. The defendant had an obligation to at least attempt legal restraint against her husband before she took more drastic measures. But instead, Sara Grayson sought help for herself and her children from no one.

"You heard the defense's own expert witness testify that most women who strike out at their abusers do so impulsively when they feel their life is in immediate danger and they have no other way out. In many of those cases, the abused ones turn themselves in and are then eager to confess and justify their actions. The fact that the defendant did none of these things suggests that she herself doubted the justification of her actions. The guilt that she now feels also casts a doubt on that justification, no matter what her lawyer tells you. In her _own mind_ she has doubts."

Carmichael rested her hands on the rail in front of the jury, leaning forward slightly. "So here we are, ladies and gentlemen, back to the issue at hand. The defendant used deadly force against her husband and wants us to believe that she was justified in doing so. The law allows the use of deadly force only when one's life or safety is in imminent physical danger, or in the defense of another whose life or safety is being immediately threatened. How can that be true of someone who was asleep at the time of the attack? Sara Grayson took it upon herself to become judge, jury and executioner of Mitchell Grayson. She took the law into her own hands. That wasn't her right. And for that crime, she _does_ deserve to be punished."

***Judge Yee handed the verdict slip back to the court bailiff and asked, "Has the jury reached a decision?"

"Yes, Your Honor," the foreperson stated, accepting the slip from the bailiff. As Morgan and Grayson stood up, she unfolded the paper and read from it, "In the matter of People versus Sara Grayson, on the charge of murder in the second degree, we the jury find the defendant not guilty."

Carmichael glanced to her left and watched as Grayson burst into tears and threw her arms around Morgan. All things considered, she didn't feel as burned as she did with most cases they lost. And when Yee announced the dismissal of all charges and ended court, she actually felt a sense of satisfaction as Grayson was joined by her three children. Somehow, it felt like a happy ending despite the loss.

As she was repacking her briefcase, she considered cornering Morgan and offering to buy her a drink as a kind of peace offering, but decided against it. When the time was right, she was sure Morgan would make the conciliatory gesture. So instead, she and Penland headed out into the mid-afternoon sun and back to the office.

***At the sound of a throat being cleared, Carmichael looked up from her desk to find Morgan standing in the doorway of her office. Caught off guard, all she could manage was a surprised, "Hi."

Morgan strolled in with her hands in the pockets of her jeans. "I stopped by to see Jack but the receptionist said he isn't back from court yet."

Carmichael checked the clock on the far wall. "He should be back anytime now. Is there something I can help you with instead?"

"No," Morgan answered casually as she sat down. "He and I are supposed to go to dinner. Sort of a celebration."

Wondering if the purpose of Morgan's visit was to rub her nose in the loss, Carmichael replied coolly, "I guess you have reason to celebrate."

Morgan stretched in the chair. "Oh, it's just another day, another dollar." She paused, mid-stretch and frowned slightly. "Well, actually, I guess it's just another _day_, since I didn't get paid on this one. The down side of pro bono work."

Catching the sparkle in her eye, Carmichael brightened. "So make Jack buy dinner tonight."

"That seems fair," Morgan quickly agreed. She studied Carmichael for a moment, then said, "What I need more than food, though, is a nice long run."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Carmichael acknowledged, trying to decide whether or not the comment was an invitation. "But I guess you can't stand Jack up."

"Sure I can. I owe him one," she shrugged. "I'll call him later and explain. Given how hard he's been lobbying for me to let bygones be bygones and to kiss and make up with you, I have a feeling he won't mind a bit."

"He's been trying pretty hard to steer me in the same direction," Carmichael nodded.

"So are you anywhere near being finished for the day?"

Carmichael grinned. "That depends on whether we can get out of the building without my getting caught."

"Well then, I'd better check the hallway to see if the coast is clear," Morgan suggested with a smile.

While Carmichael quickly stashed a file in a desk drawer and grabbed her coat, Morgan peered first one way and then the other at the office door.

Coming up behind her, Carmichael reached to turn off the lights and asked, "How's it look?"

Glancing over her shoulder, Morgan answered, "All clear. Let's make a run for it!"

"I'm right behind you!" Carmichael assured her.


End file.
